


Queen of Gondor II

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 39,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion story to the letters.  Farielle, a young lady from the countryside of Dol Amroth, is kidnapped by Haradrim, who sell her to a Lady of Umbar, who decides to offer her to Lord Alphros as a potential bride.</p><p>Lord Alphros claims that his lineage is from Queen Beruthial, who was (he says) unknowingly pregnant when her husband cast her out.  Her boat (says he) landed in far south Harad, where she bore her son.  Therefore he is rightful King of Gondor, and desires to take up his throne, deposing Denethor.</p><p>This is the tale of Farielle's time in Harad, and what becomes of her.</p><p>**Written by several different people at elendor mush.  </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

It was day a little while ago. Really. Farielle had taken a basket of filthy rags and bandages down to the river to wash, and the evening sun had glittered off the water. But now, somehow without her noticing, day is gone, and night has fallen. She hurries to put the last of the cloths back into the basket. Not so far away, the dull white of the Gondorian tents glow orange in the soft light of several camp fires, and the girl glances over at them to reassure herself, then lifts the basket to her hip and starts up the path.

 

Just a few steps up to the camp...hardly any room for error here. Miki'al shushes his companions, and watches the woman with the wet cloths in the basket as she rises, turning to return to safety. He counts the steps. One, two...his hands tighten around the rope in his hands, three...then he leaps from the shadows of the tall salt grasses, lunging at the young woman. His hands reach first for her head, more importantly her mouth, to try to stifle any cry for help.

 

A shadow moves, and Farielle turns her head, catching the onrushing man. For a second, she is frozen, then she drops her basket, opening her mouth to scream and turning to run - all at once. Laundry spills over the sandy ground, and she manages a shrill squeak before a hard hand clamps over her mouth and cuts it off.

 

Miki'al tackles the woman to the ground, his two companions leaping up after him, to help him subdue the woman before she can gain her escape. Miki'al's hard wiry body lands on top of the young woman, and he grasps her right hand to pin it down, unable to do more than hold her still. But he has companions. "Ropes! Feet first!" he hisses, trying to keep the noise level down.

 

Farielle struggles, trying to kick or hit, to bite the hand that's across her mouth. But she is a slight lass, and not accustomed to wrestling. The clean cloths are scattered across the path; some of them trampled into the ground by the men and no longer clean. 

 

The girl's eyes are wide, and her chest heaves as she tries to scream - but her cries are muffled. And despite her kicking, someone grabs her feet, forcing them together.

 

The river is not being used as a latrine, though still men come and go from it, washing blood and dirt off themsleves or else just cooling off as they can. Menelglir has just finished doing so, having waded barefoot for some time in the river to cool off, then splashing his head and neck with water, some distance upstream from the woman and her attackers. The Squire, having settled onto the bank for a bit to dry off and then pull his boots back on and secure the rest of his gear, now stands, stretching a little and rotating an arm around slowly, stiffly, as if it has been wounded--which likely it has. The noise of the camp drowns out any cries from downstream, at least so far, but some motion or other seems to catch the Squire's eye, for he stops and stares that way.

 

"Grab one of those..." Miki'al growls, jutting his chin at the clean and less than clean cloths, to indicate his desire. He wrestles her arm across her own body, still putting his hardest weight over her mouth. The legs are being bound with good sturdy rope, and he climbs up her body, straddling her hips with his knees. In the common tongue he asks the woman, "Are you a fine lady then, hmm? Got some lords n ladies in your heritage?" The other companion hurries to fetch a few of the rags, and brings them back, dropping them on Farielle's neck and chest as the two struggle, but keeps an eye on the camp to see if there's been any notice of the hapless girl's plight. Seeing the requested rags fall close by, Miki'al removes his hand from her mouth to quickly grab one.

 

Most of the camp has gone up to the fires, leaving few to look towards the river - and none who do so. Farielle's eyes are wild with panic, and when the man speaks - in common, despite his accent - she gives no sign of understanding. But when he moves his hand, she draws in a swift breath to scream again.  And claws at his face with her free hand.

 

The scream, by chance, carries on the wind, though some of its force is lost. "Hey..." Menelglir says quietly, frowning. Then louder, "Hey!" He's a bit of a distance away, but he starts hurrying downstream along the banks, trotting--then breaking into a run. "Hey! You there!" He draws his sword.

 

Miki'al swears softly in his own tongue, grasping the white rag and quickly shoving it into Farielle's screaming mouth, wincing tightly as her free hand claws at his face as he stuffs more and more of it in, all the way to the back to get the entire rag in completely. "The other hand!" He says to his peers, turning his head slightly away as he tries to get his task completed. Finally he can stand it no more, and grasps her other hand with his free hand, putting her wrists together. "Bind these quick, Takar." he says, holding them out and still for the man with the ropes. He looks up sidelong and wary as the call of perhaps a sentry or...it doesn't matter, he's got a sword.

The third man also hears the challenge, and draws his sword as well, and readies himself to meet the Gondorian man. "Do it quick and go! I will handle this," he says in the Umbarean tongue, and strides forward to close the distance to Menelglir.

 

"You!!" Menelglir shouts loudly now, on clearly seeing an enemy in front of him, with sword drawn. He lunges forward to the challenge, sword thrusting toward the third man's mid section. "Sneaking into the camp, eh?" He has not yet clearly discerned what is going on with the woman, as he has to focus attention on the man with the blade in front of him first.

 

The scream is cut short, and Farielle gags on the rag, and then chokes - her eyes growing wider and wider, tears filling them. She stops fighting though; all her efforts now going into trying to breathe, and panicking further as she fails - then straining against Miki'al's hold to try and reach her mouth.

 

"Was just taking a swim," the Southron answers in the common tongue with a flash of a smile, his white teeth contrasting with his dark skin. He doesn't wait for more conversation though, making the first move as he lunges in low, aiming for Menelglir's thigh.

 

"No no...I need those." Miki'al says, pulling against her pulling hands, seeing her goal to get at the rag. He smiles, or grimaces, either way. Takar wraps the rope around the wrists one, two, three times, quick as a wink, then threads the end through the woman's hands, then around to the other side of to go between her arms. He yanks the bind tight now, then quickly ties a double knot to keep the ends from working loose. Now Miki'al climbs off the woman, rolling her to the side so he can tie one of the other cloths over her mouth and behind her head, so she cannot force the rag out with her tongue.

 

Menelglir twists deftly out of the way, but brings his sword around in a slashing movement to try for his attacker's midsection as he does so. He calls out, loudly, yelling something in Sindarin toward the main camp, though doubtful that anyone will hear.

 

Farielle can't fight any more; all her strength is going to trying to control the gagging reflex. Trying to breathe. She retches, then draws a deep shuddering breath in through her nose, terrified eyes rolling towards where Menelglir's figure can be seen dimly in the shadows. More tears start to her eyes - of pain, this time.

 

The sword cuts across the Umbarean's waist, not quite gutting him, though certainly bringing forth blood. In the waning light, the blood cannot be seen against the man's red shirt, but the smell is strong and hot. "Be quiet." he says, slashing again at the Gondorian, higher now though, trying for Menelglir's neck.

 

Miki'al apparently cares little for the comfort of the lady, lifting her up to force her to stand. "Now. Lets go see if your family tree has any branches." he says almost lewdly, and bends down to grasp her waist with his shoulder, straining to lift her. Takar assists, and once Miki'al's got the woman balanced, he turns slowly and carefully to look at the third man, still engaged in battle, then slowly carefully starts to walk with his prize along the shore, toward Barazon, and more importantly, away from the Gondorian camp.

 

But Menelglir evades the Southron's blade once more, this time by blocking the blow with his own blade, metal clattering upon metal. He pushes hard to force the other man's blade away and back, and then swiftly and with a two-handed stroke, hews at the Southron's neck. "Invaders!! Attackers! We are under attack!" he shouts again, this time in Westron and louder.

 

Farielle's arms hang awkwardly and uncomfortably down; her head banging into them with each step Miki'al takes. And uncomfortable soon turns to painful, as blood rushes to her head and muscles unaccustomed to such a position start to cramp. And it's not much fun having a shoulder stuck in your gut, either. Perhaps these discomforts distract the girl from thinking she'll soon be dead - or worse. Or maybe it is the other way around.

 

Now Menelglir's shouts are heard, and there is a sudden stir up at the camp. Men come running from the fires, around the tents, grabbing up weapons.

 

The man's cry is wordless yet his pain, and his mortal wound is clearly spoken in his tone. Thick dark blood spews from the Haradrim's vein, spraying his opponent with a hot gushing film, though after the first couple of beats the flow lessens noticably, and the man falls to the ground, gurgling.

 

Miki'al speeds his pace with his burden, grunting with every other step, and huffing as he tries to make a quick escape. Takar is right on his heels, having no trouble at all keeping up. Takar glances over his shoulder as the hue and cry goes out. "By the Eye...this is not good." He continues for a couple more steps, then says, "Keep on, I will buy you time." Miki'al, too winded and strained to really respond, just keeps on.

 

The fresh blood makes little difference to Menelglir's blue tabard, which is filthy despite his just having been in the river. He pays little heed to the dying man, except to yank his blade from the man's flesh before rushing onward after the other two. Still, it is precious seconds that he has had to waste, and he has much distance to cover. "Archers!!" Menelglir yells, hoping those behind him understand the suggestion.

 

But they don't. Or if they do, perhaps Menelglir himself blocks any shots. For no arrows come, though the sound of pounding feet tell of the coming of the men themselves. But they are even farther behind than the squire. 

 

And Farielle? She tries to pound on Miki'al's back with her tied hands, but she has no strength left, and the blows are feeble.

 

Indeed, Miki'al doesn't even notice the blows, thinking them merely the swinging of her body against his as he runs in a somewhat gliding motion. He suddenly changes course, heading away from the river. In the twilight, it is hard to see where it is safe to put a foot, and he stumbles more than once.

 

Takar, however, does not wait for the man to catch up to him, instead turning and running back toward the Gondorian camp. He draws his scimitar with the cruel sound of singing steel. He seems to be charging straight toward Meneglir, though at the last second, he dodges to the side, swinging.

 

Menelglir has to chnage course, too, to avoid that blow, twisting about and nearly losing his footing on the wet river bed, so that the scimitar barely misses slashing through his arm. He twists about, off balance, striking a blow toward Takar's back, but it's not full force, as he is out of position.

 

Miki'al's figure is nearly lost in the gloom now, and as the Gondorian soldiers race to Menelglir's aid, they focus solely on Takar, not even aware that there was another man out there. And in their rush, they trample over the basket, and grind once-clean bandaging rags into the ground, and obliterate what tracks the sand may have held.

 

Miki'al's figure is nearly lost in the gloom now, and as the Gondorian soldiers race to Menelglir's aid, they focus solely on Takar, not even aware that there was another man out there. And in their rush, they trample over the basket, and grind once-clean bandaging rags into the ground, and obliterate what tracks the sand may have held.

 

Menelglir's blow is glancing, turning what would have been a crippling blow to the spine a mere cut. He growls in his pain, saying, "Think you'll find that in the dark?" swinging the sword around to try to cut the sword arm of the leading scout.

 

From behind, Menelglir lunges forward with his sword, trying to stab Takar through the back of his legs to cripple him. "Spread out!" he shouts to the arriving men. "Search the banks! There were more of them! And a woman, too--I heard her scream!"

 

Miki'al trudges on, huffing loudly now. "Just like loading sacks of grain..." he says softly to himself, in encouragement, and sets his sights on the outskirts of the Haradrim campsites that beseige the Keep of Caldur, the yellow-orange lights welcoming. He stumbles again.

 

"More?" someone shouts, and the Gondorians spread out, hunting through the darkness by the river, some turning up and some turning down. But Miki'al has left the water, and the shadows that fool his feet also hide him from his pursuers.

 

Takar continues to strike, swinging in large, general arcs at Menelglir's form, as his face and body becomes obscured to mere silhouettes against the cobalt sky of dusk. If he does not strike, he steps forward and swings again. But now there are more of the enemy around, and he turns and runs away from the river, though not going in the exact same direction as his compatriot.

 

It is a scene of chaos. Night has fully fallen by now, and in the darkness run vague forms of shouting men; one or two have torches, which only throw the others into starker shadows, confusing the eye.

 

"More?" someone shouts, and the Gondorians spread out, hunting through the darkness by the river, some turning up and some turning down. But Miki'al has left the water, and the shadows that fool his feet also hide him from his pursuers. (re)

 

It is a scene of chaos. Night has fully fallen by now, and in the darkness run vague forms of shouting men; one or two have torches, which only throw the others into starker shadows, confusing the eye.

 

Leaving the pursuit of Takar to the other men that have joined the chase, Menelglir plunges off downriver, following along the bank. "This way!! " he yells loudly. "To me!"

 

Some of the men hear Menelglir and turn to follow him. Or try to. It's difficult to tell just where he is. But some at least catch up to the Squire. "What?" one demands, between breaths, "Is going on?!"

 

 

Takar stumbles now in the dark, cursing and almost cutting himself with his own sword. He slows down, to save his own skin, relying more on the darkness, and his stealth to sneak away.

 

"A woman was screaming by the bank of the river," Menelglir says, stopping to catch his breath and try to calm the confusion. "I went to investigate, and there are Southrons--one with a sword drawn coming toward me,and two more--they took a woman with them!" He points. "This way they went, into the darkness.." then sighs. "Tis hopeless, I fear."

 

The other men stare into the darkness, trying to see. Then one shakes his head. "We can keep looking," he says, "But I don't think we'll find anyone. Not in this dark!" 

"One of the healers?" asks another, and a third voice, dissatisfied, "Hate to just quit! A woman!"

 

"Then what do you propose?" Menelglir snaps at the two dissatisfied men--or their voices in the dark. "Search for them in the darkness, with torches--marking ourselves as targets for the Southron archers? Trample any tracks that might be found by our Rangers, as we stumble about? Search blindly in the darkness? Go find a Ranger, in any case, and let us get their advice on this matter."

 

"No," the man - whoever he was - sounds subdued. "I know it. It's just..." His voice trails off, and he turns away, going to find the rangers, as suggested. The other man sighs, his mouth twisting bitterly in the darkness. "Better call them off," he says, of the other men who still are searching. Then he lifts his own voice to a stentorian bellow - a sergeant, by the sound of that! - "FALL BACK! TO CAMP!"

 

"To camp," Menelglir says, sighing heavily, though. He gives a last look into the darkness before he follows the rest of the men to camp, coming in last.

 

\-----------------

 

As the sounds of the shouting men, speaking in a tongue that does not belong on these shores finally recedes into the distance, Miki'al slows his pace, as much to get his breath as anything, and still he continues, setting his sights on the very closest campfire he can find. Once he is within the warm aura of its golden glow, he finally puts down his stolen prize, standing there breathing hard for just a moment, and also to get a better look at her.

 

Farielle is limp, her eyes shut, though she hasn't fainted. Black hair tangles about a very white face - she is slender, young, probably pretty, though it's hard to tell in these circumstances. And dressed in a plain white smock, a little the worse for the wear.

 

Miki'al takes a big breath, and wordlessly he kneels beside the young woman, and reaches down to pull the gag down off her mouth. "So, wake up...wake up pretty..." he finally says in the common tongue, slapping her cheeks gently. Then he reaches into her mouth to pull out the cloth.

 

The girl shudders and gasps, working her mouth - so dry from all that cloth. Her eyes open, staring at the face above hers; they are dark with fright and revulsion. "Who..?" she whispers, hardly even a croak comes out. "Wh-what do .." She tries to swallow. "What do you want? My - my father will.."

 

"Your father will mourn your loss for many ages, likely," the man says in a cheery voice. "Or else just get busy making a new daughter. Does he already have replacement daughters waiting in the wings?" he asks, smiling. His teeth are bright against his skin.

 

Farielle stares at him. "..pay you," she finishes, at last, faintly. But it hardly seems this man, who speaks so callously of replacement daughters, will want money, and she closes her eyes again, and clenches her teeth against tears.

 

"/Pay me./" Miki'al says in a surprised, asking tone. "Would he now. And what might you be worth? Does he even have money, after ekeing his living out in the cold climes and rocky soil of your land?" He chuckles softly, staring at Farielle's face without shame or embarassment, as if memorizing hers. "Who is your father then, sweet?"

 

The girl's eyes pop open, a spurt of very welcome anger helping to keep her terror at bay. "Of course we have money," she says indignantly. "And it's better than being hot and dirty all the time! Let - let me go. I promise, you will be well paid."

 

Miki'al moves toward the young woman's bonds, and fiddles with them. But rather than untie them, he gives them a sharp jerk, to ensure their tightness. Then, still smiling, he gives her face another couple of soft, condescending pats. "What's your name, girl? And how old are you?" He rises now, walking to the fire.

 

A gasp of pain. "Farielle," the girl says, her anger dying, leaving her voice dull. "Gir-Girithlin." She doesn't answer his other question, but turns her head to stare into the darkness away from the fire with wide, unseeing eyes.

 

"You did not answer my second question..." he says in an even, measured tone. "And what is your father's name? And how much would he pay me NOT," he reaches down to pick up one of the burning sticks from the fire, and turns to look at her, "to brand you as a slave?"

 

There is no response as he begins to speak, but at his last words, Farielle turns her head to look at him, her eyes fixing on the burning stick in horror. "Nineteen," she says faintly. "Wh-whatever you wish." Desperately, she tries to keep her voice from shaking; and succeeds. Mostly. "My father is Caronn. Girithlin."

 

His approach stops as she answers at first, then he hmms softly. "A bit old," he says to himself. Then he continues, flopping himself down on the ground next to Farielle somewhat casually, his arm resting over her hips like she was a bolstering pillow. "I see." He regards the stick, yellow-hot coals breathing excitedly on the tip. He turns it in his hand to view it on other sides. Then he turns his head, looking at her, with a languid smile. Almost conversationally he says, "And what /other/ important relatives are you descended from...other than your father, the great Caronn Girithlin?" He holds the stick closer, where she can see it plainly.

 

"Important relatives," she repeats, sounding puzzled. It is the height of strangeness to by lying here in the dark, tied hand and foot, discussing geneology with a Haradrim. "My mother was a Draudagnir," she offers, hesitantly, darting a glance at his face to see if this is what he wants. The brand moves closer and her eyes return to it, drawn as if by a magnet.

 

Having no idea of the important persons of the lineages of the northmen, Miki'al's expression is somewhat blank. "Draudagnir? Hmm. Tell me. Are the Draudagnirs more befitting in the clothing a slave? Or a princess?" The hot coal, now cooled to a warm orange, is brought even closer to the face, and Miki'al holds the woman down to keep her from thrashing, if she tries.

 

Farielle's breathing is shallow and fast, and her skin is clammy; she swallows hard, trying to press her head back into the sand, turning it sideways as far from the coal as she can; and shutting her eyes once more. "I am not a slave!" she says, hardly able to get the words past muscles so tight they surely must break. Clothing - she snatches at this thought, insane as it is. "I have - better dresses. At home. This - is for healing."

 

The stick stays there for just a moment, the warmth felt on the sensitive skin of her cheek, before he smiles and tosses it back to the fire. "Perhaps I should take you to the Lady then." He rises, looking down at his catch, then looking around for Takar, who still has not rejoined him. He checks her hands to make sure they are not too blue, not too cold, then he lifts her up again, carrying her deeper into the Haradrim encampment.


	2. Chapter 2

_The night passed so slowly.  Farielle lay on the sand, staring at the starry sky.  It was so clear and so remote.  Tears trickled down her cheeks and soaked into the ground.  Her shoulders ached from being pulled forward, and her hands throbbed.  She could barely feel her feet.  'This can't be real!' she thought frantically.  'I'm dreaming... I'll wake up soon, and be back - back in the healer's tent, with Eloissel calling me to hurry up and bring her hot water...'_

_The stars wheeled overhead, men snored and grunted in their sleep.  Someone walked towards her - she shut her eyes and refused to look.  They stood over her for a long time before she heard their footsteps going away again.  The sky slowly turned grey, then pink, then the sun burst over the horizon, hot and white, and her captors stirred.   Farielle choked back a whimper of terror as one man knelt over her, reaching out to grab her arms.  But all he did was pull her up.  His shoulder dug into her stomach as he stood._

 

Through the rubble of the streets, two men wind their way through, the second man carrying a barefooted and bound woman over his shoulder. As they find the Lady of Seaward Tower, their direction has more purpose, as does their stride. "Lady." The first says, bending a knee. The second man stops behind, bending down to drop his prisoner on her feet, and holds her standing up, as balance is a little difficult for her. 

 

Eruphel is watching two men sparring, but turns as she is addressed.  "Yes?" She looks at the first man, then the second, then the young woman.

 

The sparring men - Gimildaur of Farside Tower and Hayya of Seaward - are focused on each other, and ignore the newcomers.

 

Farielle sags - it is a good thing that the man is holding her up; not only are her feet tied, but her legs have gone to sleep and she couldn't stand on her own. Her dark hair is filled with sand and there are smudges on her face - which is white and terrified. Wide eyes stare at the woman, then dart towards the sound of blades clashing against each other.

 

Broad movements between the combatants distract Eruphel for a moment, and she laughs and claps as Hayya dodges a blow, and again less enthusiastically as he lands one. "Very good, very good!" she says, then turns to the two men.  "So what is this?" she asks, looking at the frightened girl with...compassion, but not pity. 

 

"My Lady, I am Miki'al, and this is Takar, and I believe that you have said that you would pay double for a captured slave with some highborn heritage."

 

"Highborn heritage?" Eruphel repeats, looking at the young woman more closely now. "Is she untouched?"

 

"So far as we know, yes, Lady." he says, bowing his head.

 

Eruphel looks at Farielle, the girl's wide, scared eyes almost amusing. "Tell me then, girl, what is your name, and who are you related to?"

 

The woman is talking and Farielle drags her gaze away from the fight to stare at her. Her eyes are a blueish-grey, not the straight grey of most Gondorians. "F-Farielle," she stammers after a minute. "Girithlin." She repeats what she told Miki'al earlier, still unsure if it is the proper answer to a question she finds entirely bewildering. Why do these barbarians want to know who she is related to? "My - my father is Caronn Girithlin, and - and my mother was of Draudagnir."

 

Eruphel sighs, her brow furrowing. "Unbind her." she says.

 

The man kneeling rises, and the two exchange a look between them, unsure what this command means. Did they get someone not worthy? "You better be worth it." Miki'al threatens in Farielle's ear as he holds her up, so Takar can start on the hands, teasing loose the knots that have been tightening and straining all night. After a while, he decides to just cut it, and pulls out his knife and begins sawing.

 

Farielle winces as the ropes are cut away from her hands, gritting her teeth to keep from crying out. The ropes were not so tight as to cut off the circulation, but they have rubbed her wrists and ankles raw.

 

Nearby, Hayya is struck and swiftly yields the match.  Eruphel sighs, and shakes her head. "In battle, Hayya Mor, if you can pick up a longsword, do so." She looks at Gimildaur. "And I thank you. You are a fine swordsman. It is a pity you are not in my tower, sir."

 

A slight nod is what Gimildaur gives Hayya before he sheathes his scimitar. He turns his glance to Eruphel and shrugs his shoulders slightly. "Had my interests been more to the liking of my father, no doubt I would be, Lady. As it turned out, however..." He trails off and shrugs once more. "Shall you be needing me for anything else?"

 

Eruphel smiles. "Well, perhaps your interests can still change. Please, sup in my tent on the morrow, for I would enjoy hearing a story about your father. Till then, I thank you." she dismisses him, and turns to look at Farielle.   "Come here, Hayya. What is a Draugandir...Draudagnir, is it? Yes." She turns her head to look at him. "What is that?"

 

"I shall see if I remember any stories," says the Master Crusader rather neutrally; his gaze flicks to Farielle and the situation there. A brief frown mars his features before he bows his head to Eruphel. "Lady," says the man before he turns and resumes his walk.

 

Quickly Hayya moves to his Mistress while saying, "Yes, Mistress." He is favoring his one leg a bit as he moves. He stops next to his mistress and says, "Draudagnir is one of the smaller Noble houses of Gondor." 

 

The girl staggers as her feet are cut free, looking back and forth between the Haradrim. "They are a fitting match for Girithlin," she says, with a faint hint of haughtiness, as Hayya's words seem to denigrate her mother's kindred.

 

"Good enough." Eruphel says.  "Very well then, Farielle of House Draudagnir, you look...somewhat pretty..." she begrudgingly says, "Hayya, you will take her to the smithy and have some shackles placed on her feet, and a heavy stone attached. Her hands can be free. Inside the tent, you will see that she has what she needs to clean herself up." Eruphel scratches her cheek thoughtfully. "I do not have anything else for her to wear just now."

 

Bowing his head to Eruphel, Hayya says, "Yes, Mistress, it will be done." Moving over to the young woman, he places his hand on the back of her neck and grips it tightly, but not overly so, saying to her, "You will do as my Mistress commands." Looking back to Eruphel, he asks, "Shall I take her now?" 

 

Somewhat pretty. Farielle's eyes flash, anger once more driving back the ever-present fear. But all she says is, "Girithlin. I am of House Girithlin." But the mention of shackles and a stone - terror leaps up once more, to be forceably beaten down; she flinches at the touch on her neck, but manages not to cry out.

 

Eruphel nods now, smiling blandly at Farielle's insisting reply. "Take her now. I will return to my tent, and rest." she says, and after looking around once more to take it all in, she remembers the two men. "Ah yes, the price." She reaches into her pocket, pulling out several coins, which she counts. "Double the price of a slave...for each of you." she says, then moves on, making her way eastward now. 


	3. Chapter 3

It is now late in the evening in the former city of Caldur, the city that now stands in ruins. Most, if not all of the buildings are but shadows of their former selves, but the Haradrim encampment is still busy, lanterns and fires light up the camp and casting long shadows all about. Within the Lady of Seaward's tent it is no different: a few cots line the walls, a few comfy chairs and in the center is a finely crafted table with maps all about it, and lanterns hang all about lighting the inside of the tent.

 

         Within the tent is Lady Seaward's personal slave Hayya. He sits upon one of the cots with his shirt off looking at the foul scars upon his chest, even tracing them with his finger and shuddering a bit as if remembering his near-death experience. Shaking that feeling off, he looks about the tent and sighs.  Slowly getting to his feet, he begins to straighten things up, folding blankets, straightening papers, simple tasks.  Hayya is a tall man, of distinctly Gondorian look.

 

The water in the basin that Hayya has brought has grown cold, untouched; a few cloths beside it still folded neatly. Since being brought here, Farielle has done nothing but crouch in a corner and shake; her head bent over her knees, her hands in fists - and one thrust into her mouth to keep from crying out.

 

Now though she unfolds herself stiffly, having won - for the moment - the nearly impossible struggle not to give into panic and terror, and scream. For a long minute, she stares blankly at the cold water, and then she reaches out slowly for one of the cloths and even more slowly washes her face. When she has done this, she stops, the rag hanging limply from her hand, and stares into nothing, as if she can't think what comes next.

 

         Out of the corner of his eye, Hayya spots the small woman beginning to clean herself.  Looking at her with pity, he smiles and says, "Would you like me to re-heat that water? Get you some food perhaps?" The slave's words are kind for the most part.

 

Farielle jerks, and stares at Hayya. Clearly, she had forgotten he was there. After several minutes, she opens her mouth to say something; when no sound emerges, she clears her throat and tries again, her voice sounding as if she either hasn't spoken for months, or has spent the last of those months screaming her throat raw. "Yes." From somewhere, she drags up, "Please." And then is silent for another long minute. Then, "Some - some salve?" she asks tentatively, moving her hand a little. Around her wrists are welts where the ropes she was bound with cut into the skin and rubbed it raw.

 

         Nodding his head, Hayya moves over to the small fire and picks up another bowl and fills it with hot water.  Moving over to the woman, he kneels down and sets it beside her.  Smiling at her softly, he picks up the cold water and gets back up. Moving to the door of the tent, he hands it to someone outside and the sound of water being dumped out can be heard.

 

         Moving back to the fireplace, Hayya looks through a small trunk.  Finding some salted meat and some dried fruit, he puts them upon a small plate and moves back towards the woman, stopping at small pack near his cot to retrieve a small bundle.

 

"Thank you," Farielle whispers, and dips her cloth in this warmer water, dabbing at the crusted blood and rope-burned skin on her wrists, and hissing between her teeth. When she is done, she stops, as before - as if her brain has stopped working and the world has ended and there is nothing else to do but sit and stare - until after a few minutes, a slow thought returns. 

 

She takes a piece of fruit and eats it slowly, and then a bit of the meat, watching Hayya. And now her eyes are filled with the questions she is too frightened and confused and shocked to ask. Why Am I Here, and What Now, and What Is Going To Happen To Me. What she can say, is, "Wh-who are you?"

 

         Unwrapping the little bundle, Hayya says,, "Apply this to your injuries, it will keep away infection and help you heal faster." Squatting down before the woman, Hayya says, "My name is Hayya Mor, Slave of Seaward tower. Personal Slave to our Lady of the Tower, Eruphel." Looking at the wounds upon her wrists, Hayya says, "You should wrap those with fresh linens as well." Getting up, he moves back to his cot and retrieves some bandages to wrap her wrists and returns to squat down before her. 

 

Almost blindly, Farielle reaches for the salve and begins to smooth it onto her wrists. She winces away from the word he uses - slave - but says nothing, only reaching down to rub a little onto her ankles as well, trying not to touch the shackles. The rope-burns there are not as bad, by virtue of not having been pulled at so much. 

 

"That is not a Gondorian name," she says after a moment, with a sort of desperate courage. Hayya comes back with bandages, and she looks at them for a long moment before saying, "I cannot put them on, myself. Will - will you help me?" Her words come haltingly, as if she has to stop and remember each one before saying it, like someone who is speaking a language she has only just learned and never heard aloud.

 

         With a nod of his head, Hayya says, "No, this is my slave name. Given to me by my Mistress." Setting one of the bandages down, Hayya says, "I will wrap them." Gently he lifts her one hand and begins to wrap her wrist; the bandage goes around a few times and then he ties it off snugly. Inspecting his work, he says, "Your other hand?" and then doing the same thing to her other hand, he smiles and says, "You will heal, you are lucky you are pretty and a woman. You receive far better treatment and care that way."

 

Farielle watches the cloths being wrapped around her wrists. There is something very soothing in the motion - around and around and around... but the moment of almost-comfort is shattered. She takes a deep breath, and in a very small voice, asks the question she dreads to know the answer to - and fears she already does. "What - what are they going to d-do with me?" Her voice shakes, but only a little, and her hands close slowly into fists again, the fingernails biting into the palms.

 

         Thinking a moment, Hayya says, "I do not know what they plan to do with you, perhaps make you a servant in the tower to assist my Mistress with her daily tasks, perhaps you are to be married off to someone. I cannot say for sure." Getting to his feet, Hayya returns to his simple tasks of straitening up the tent, placing blankets and pillows upon cots and then what looks like preparing a meal for someone. 

 

"Married?" Farielle stares at Hayya in utter astonishment, and the sheer absurdity of this suggestion is enough to bring back some semblance of her normal manner and speech. For the moment, at least. "There are not enough women in Harad that they must steal them?"

 

         With a nod of his head, Hayya says, "You would be thought of as a great prize, or perhaps be meant strictly for breeding. But I do not know the plans of my masters." Boiling some water, Hayya sets up a plate, utensils and cup at the table then moves back to his cot and sits down. Unfolding his shirt, he looks it over a moment and begins to put it back on.

 

Breeding. Farielle wrinkles her nose in disgust. "But why?" she asks. "I thought they hated us." For the first time, she notices the scars the man bears. "What happened to you?" she asks.  Automatically, she reaches for another piece of meat, chewing slowly and swallowing. "May I have some water?" she asks, and also, "Is there a brush. For - for my hair?" Her hair is tangled and full of sand.

 

         With a look of disgust, Hayya says, "The handiwork of your Knight Captain.." his words are full anger and hatred. Pulling his shirt on over his head, he sighs and says, "They will heal in time.." Fixing his clothing and getting to his feet, Hayya picks up a cup and fills it with water and then moves over to the woman again and hands it to her gently. 

 

"Lord Imrakhor?" Farielle asks. "He is a fool," she says sharply. "He should be hung!" She shuts her lips tightly, an angry look in her eyes, that fades a little as Hayya brings her the water. She takes it, drinking thirstily. "Thank you... it is so hot!" Little by little, she finishes the fruit and the meat, and then combs at her hair with her fingers, smoothing it as best she can, and straightening out some of the tangles. There is nothing she can do about the sand, without washing, and she doesn't seem inclined to do that right now.

 

         With a nod of his head, Hayya says, "Trust me.. he will die." His words are full of anger and hate; shaking his head, he takes a deep breath, until, regaining his composure, he says, "I will ask about getting you a comb for your hair, but that may have to wait until we return to my Mistress' tower." Moving back to his cot, he sits down again and leans back. 

 

Farielle nods. Quietly, she says, "Thank you. For - for being kind." And she sits in silence, staring at nothing, her face turned away so that he will not see that tears have sprung to her eyes.

 

_Tower.  Her thoughts beat at the inside of her head like a bird frantically trying to escape a cage.  'I still know the way back,' she thought, with a glance at the tent door.  'The ships may yet be there - and surely they are looking for me.  I heard people shouting.  I must....'  She looked at the chains around her ankles and the rock they were attached to - she could barely move it, much less try and run - and despair slid like ice through her chest.  Folding her arms about her knees, she hid her face in the crook of her elbow.  'They will come.  Surely, they will come.  They won't just leave me here.'  But unbidden, a memory grows in her mind - of beds of injured men; the drawn, weary looks on the men's faces; the whispers that cut off when she had come near replaced by forced smiles._

 


	4. Chapter 4

The night has passed, another day has come, and it also is nearly gone.  

 

Eruphel had slept. For a full twelve hours after the sound of great fighting finally died down, and the Lady of Seaward returned to her tent, relatively unscathed, yet the exhaustion of years seemed to be upon her. She retreated into a sequestered portion of her tent, with instructions not to awaken her for any reason, unless the tent was afire. And the servants, guards and slaves seemed to take that seriously. 

 

So now, at last, Eruphel emerges looking more refreshed than Farielle, at least, has ever seen her. She almost looks young, even. And, she is dressed in clean robes, her face and body washed, what wounds she has freshly dressed. Still, Eruphel putters in to the main area of the tent with small, sleepy steps. She yawns for a bit, then lets herself down on the pile of pillows, looking at Farielle judgingly, but saying nothing.

 

Farielle is sitting in the same spot in the tent where she has been, for the most part, since she was brought here. On the floor, not quite in a corner, but close. Her knees are hugged to her chest, her arms around them, and her face resting on top - her eyes are closed, but they snap open at the small sounds of Eruphel's arrival. She watches the woman warily, silently. 

 

For her part, her face is clean, and her hair has been straightened, though it still is somewhat sandy and uncombed. There are neat bandages on her wrists, and around her ankles beneath the shackles.  Her dress is plain and clean, if wrinkled - and no longer white. From somewhere, someone has found a faded blue gown for her.

 

 

A messenger appears, almost as if by magic. Almost as if he had been waiting for the Lady Eruphel's awakening for several hours now. Thusly permitted by the Seaward guards, the messenger -- who casts his eyes about the tent, letting them linger on the Gondorian lady -- bows to the mistress of Corsairs.

 

"My Lady. Lord Alphros has come to seek an audience as per your message."

 

 

 

Eruphel stares at Farielle a bit longer. Soon, a slave arrives, requesting if there is something the lady would like to break her fast with. "Eggs, coffee...some meat...wine..." Eruphel says, not really looking away from Farielle, except for a moment. "Farielle Girithlin, have you had aught to eat recently?" She dismisses the slave with a wave of the hand before waiting for Farielle to reply, though.

 

Just then a Farside messenger is admitted, which is not surprising. But when he delivers his message, the Lady appears surprised nonetheless. "So soon?" Her tone betrays her emotion. "Very well then, admit him." Eruphel tightens the cover of her robes, and runs her fingers briefly through her hair, like she cares what he thinks about how she looks.

 

 

Farielle looks blank at Eruphel's question. She is silent a long moment, as if hunting for thought or memory. At last she says, "Fruit. I don't remember. This morning." She startles at the messenger's arrival, though his message means nothing at all to her.

 

 

The messenger bows and departs, and the tent flap is not reopened until a sufficient interval of time has passed. Then, as if on cue, the veiled King-Claimant of Gondor appears as Farielle speaks of fruit. "Lady Eruphel," he greets with a dip of his head, ere a curious gaze drifts in the direction of the Gondorian woman.

 

 

"Lord Alphros..." Eruphel says, rising from her place on the pillows. She approaches him, extending her hand in greeting. "Forgive me, I suppose I am unprepared. When I sent out messengers to find you, I expected results in a month, not a day..." She waves a graceful hand to the cushions in invitation. "And so I had planned to have this woman more...presentable." She looks again at Farielle, the look somewhat harsh. "Though, even dirty she is comely. Since you have attempted to grant me something which I greatly desired, I thought I should reciprocate." She smiles with reserve.

 

The words sink in, and then their meaning, and Farielle's eyes widen. She looks at the man - Lord Alphros - a faint crease growing between her eyebrows at the odd veil.

 

 

Alphros accepts Eruphel's hand, placing a kiss upon it... One might sense the sentiment of a raised eyebrow beneath his veil, though he does nothing more than smile wryly. "That is very thoughtful of you," he admits, turning to look at Farielle. Whereas the Lady of Seaward's is harsh -- the look of a Corsair -- his manner is different. Not warm, but not calculating either.

 

"Greetings, Lady...?" he speaks to the Gondorian upon the ground, before catching sight of her bound ankles. Tilting his head back to Eruphel, he adds, "Since I have caught you by surprise, might I suggest now is a fair time to remove her bindings?"

 

 

 

Eruphel looks at Farielle, then at the former Farside Lord, thoughtfully, then answers Alphros. "To be honest, I had planned not to do so until she was safely back in Umbar. But for you..." Eruphel claps her hands, and a guardsman arrives. "Remove her shackles." Eruphel orders, and at once the man hurries to where the Gondorian girl sits, and works at the locks of the manacles with his keys.

 

As they wait, the Seaward slave returns with others in tow, carrying a serving tray with boiled coffee and tiny cups, along with sweeteners. Behind her comes another tray with cold meats, cheeses, olives dates and other fruits. After him comes wine. The eggs apparently require longer. All of these are brought to the Lady and presented with a bow. Eruphel picks what she wants off the tray of cold food, while the drinks are prepared for her and Alphros. After she is served, the tray goes to Alphros, to offer refreshment.

 

At last, the shackles are undone, and the guard stands back. "L...King Alphros anAzulada, allow me to present..." Eruphel moves toward Farielle to offer her hand to help the girl rise, "Farielle Girithlin, of Gondor."

 

 

Alphros gives the offered refreshments an appreciative amount of attention, but then waves them away without taking anything. "Caution is our friend, but let me allay your fears; the Gondorians are driven out so where is she to run? To death in the deserts or crueller hands in Umbar? The Lady is quite fortunate... If she is who she says she is." With that the would-be King glances to Farielle, a glint of suspicion in his tone.

 

"Tell me, Lady Farielle, do you bear the name Girithlin by birth or marriage?"

 

There is little obvious expression in Farielle's face - fear is hidden deep under a layer of numbness. But now a little confusion grows in the blue-grey eyes. She doesn't move as the man works to unlock the shackles, though she doesn't resist either as he moves her feet to do so. When Eruphel holds out her hand, it takes a moment for the girl to put her own in it and stand - and she sways a little as she does so, before finding her balance. Lord - King - the frown grows; and so does the locked-away terror. 

 

Alphros' words do nothing to allay it. "I am not married," she answers at last, in a voice barely more than a whisper. Her eyes flicker to the tent door, before returning to the man's masked face.

 

 

Whether Alphros is well-versed in the reading of captured Gondorians or not, Eruphel certainly is, and speaks up, to answer the thought forming in Farielle's mind. "If you were to run through that portal, beyond you would find an entire Army of Umbareans, Near Haradrim, Far Haradrim, most of them Corsairs. They would most definitely notice you. And when I finally found you and brought you back here, you would not be nearly as happy as you are right now. Nor would I." Her eyes flick toward Alphros, her gaze focusing on his lips (as they are the only expressive feature exposed). Eruphel gestures to the platter of meats cheeses and fruits. "You may help yourself," she offers to the girl.

 

 

As the Lady of Seaward gives her warning, Alphros neither reacts nor adds to it. Instead, he remains silent and still, almost as if nothing is transpiring. He does wait eagerly for the arrival of the drinks being prepared, however. When he has one in hand, he turns to Farielle and adds: "I assure you, Lady Farielle, should you choose to stay you will find the food to be quite good. I know that those strutting peacocks Thorondur and Arelion may like to pamper their kinsfolk, but that does not mean that noble gastronomy is to be found only in the halls of Edhellond."

 

 

Farielle seems to wilt a little, despair flickering through her eyes. Then, with an effort, she straightens again, and wipes the emotion from her face. She takes a piece of cheese, holding it without eating, but Alphros' words break through the blank mask once more; only this time it is anger that sparks in her eyes, not terror. "They are my kinsmen," she says, her voice edged.

 

 

The boiled eggs have arrived at last, still steaming in a bowl, which is placed on a low table by one of the attending slaves. Eruphel returns to the cushions, though she chooses the furthest one off to the side. "Please, my Lord, Farielle, take a seat." She waves a hand toward the opposite end of the cushion pile, as far as they might sit from her. A servant arrives with her supercharged coffee, and she accepts it, sipping the tiny cup slowly and carefully.

 

 

 

Alphros sits upon the indicated cushion, though his gaze does not leave Farielle. "They are indeed... If the name you name yourself is truly yours." He glances towards Eruphel, "It is not that I doubt your honesty, Lady Eruphel, but merely that it is not impossible that a captured Gondorian might seek to pose as a scion of higher birth than is truth... In the hopes that they shall be ransomed or treated well." He frowns speculatively, before sipping at his drink. "I shall naturally have a scholar specialising in genealogy interview you and ascertain the truth of your name and your blood claim."

 

Farielle stares back, lifting her chin a tiny amount. Anger is far better than fear... Though it is very strange to glare at someone who has no eyes. It isn't long before she looks away and sits down, as ordered. Though without moving from where she has stood, so that she seats herself in the exact same position as before. "Why?" she asks - almost demands - the edge in her voice turning brittle. "What do you care of my family? My father /would/ pay you." The cheese is still in her hand, held between fingers and thumb - and entirely forgotten.

 

 

"I have considered that myself, my Lord," Eruphel answers Alphros casually, peeling away the shell of the egg in a single string, "which I had also planned to delve into with more...severity, before presenting her to you." She glances at Farielle before taking a bite. "Though I suppose your method is also reliable." Farielle's anger is slightly amusing to Eruphel, but she lets Alphros explain, if anything is to be explained at all.

 

 

"Or perhaps your father -- if he is a decent, honourable man -- would be thrilled to discover that his daughter is the potential future Queen of Gondor," Alphros answers blithely without looking away from Eruphel, at whom he then smiles. "I appreciate your willingness to investigate the quality of your merchanise, my Lady. Of course, since we speak of a noble Lady and not common chattel, I trust that you will not take any offense at my thorough investigation of it... It is not that I distrust you, merely that I have my own requirements, not all of which I expect others to anticipate. 

 

"To start: I should one day hope that my Queen will provide me with an heir. Should she be so wronged or mistreated prior to our marriage that she would not be amenable to the notion of copulation without scratching my eyes out, then she is verily useless to me." He gestures with his cup. "Greatest of Kings though he may have been, I do not think anyone thought fondly of the manner in which Ar-Pharazon took his wife. I should not like to make the same mistake."

 

 

Eruphel, though she might have been offended at the implications of the King-Claimant, instead laughs heartily. Once the mirth subsides, she shapes her mouth, as if to offer a retort, but then again chuckles and shakes her head, chuckling. "<Haradaic> Then again, after some time in my tower's hospitality; after seeing what her fate /could/ be, she might have been so grateful for your gentle nature she would have leapt into your arms." she answers briefly in her own language, then switches to the common tongue. 'But of course, I will bow to your wisdom in the matter.'

 

Severity. Farielle darts a look at Eruphel. As her anger drains away, fear surges back to take its place, until Alphros starts to talk. And then the girl can do nothing but stare at him. The feeling that she is living through some sort of insane farce grows stronger. At last, she tears her gaze away, dropping it to her hands, folded in her lap. Cautiously, she touches one wrist. The bandages are real. Incomprehensible words wash over her, and she ignores them, as she does the last sentence, which she does understand. Or would, if she could make sense of anything that is happening.

 

Alphros laughs in answer to Eruphel, and nods once. "<Haradaic> That is true. Still, it is all for naught if she is not a suitable candidate in the end, though so far the signs are promising," he offers by way of a compliment.

 

Alphros then looks back to Farielle, noting her confused silence. After a moment, he prompts her with a question: "Have you no thoughts, Lady Farielle?"

 

 

Eruphel's eyes flash, should anyone have been looking, at the title thrown in to the girl's name. But she hides it and turns away, and when she looks at the would-be couple, she smiles blandly. She stares at Farielle, who seems not to be processing all of this very well. "My Lord, keep in mind that her situation has changed radically in the last two days. Some thoughts take a while to congeal." She finishes off her tiny cup of coffee.

 

Farielle accepts her title entirely unconsciously, as if it is her due; looking up as he speaks her name; though this doesn't seem to have helped much with comprehending what is going on. She stares at him, unable to think of which of the thousand things swirling around in her mind to say first, but finally, she blurts out, "You want to - marry /me/?" There is a maze of emotions in her voice, but astonishment seems to be uppermost.

 

Alphros shrugs slightly at Eruphel's suggestion-- as if he does not comprehend himself that anyone could be so confused by the situation. But he looks back at Farielle at her incredulous question. "No, I do not want to marry you... Not yet."

 

 

"<Haradaic> Promising indeed. Fetching, young...did I mention her mother's family is Draud...dreadnaught...Draudgnir? Though, she doesn't seem to be the /brightest/ star in the heavens, does she. I am not sure if you would like to have such slow children by her. Your princely offspring no doubt will need to be fast-witted to keep their heads and their thrones." All of this is spoken in the Southron tongue, as lightly and conversationally as if speaking about the weather above. And then the woman switches to the common tongue.  

 

'What he is saying, child, is that your lineage must be confirmed before he could consider it. Though, while that is happening, you two could perhaps come to know each other, and decide if you /like/ each other.'

 

Alphros slowly rises to his feet, a rueful smile on his face. "All that is true," he admits in answer to Eruphel. "But it shall have to wait on the morrow. I have much business to attend to... My thanks for this thoughtful gesture, Lady. We shall discuss the transaction further as it progresses." With a nod to Farielle, the King-Claimant turns and departs.

 

Nearly all of Farielle's energy has been going to keep from thinking about her family, to stop herself spending all her time shaking in the corner and crying, to keep from simply opening her mouth and letting out one vast scream and never stopping. She hasn't much left for comprehension of incomprehensible situations. 

 

 Amid all the babble, the fragment of name catches her attention, and she looks at Eruphel questioningly. Until the woman explains just what it is that Alphros does want, and a hint of revulsion flickers swiftly through her eyes. /Like/ him? A Haradrim? She watches Alphros leave, still saying nothing.

 

Eruphel nods, smiling, and rises as Alphros rises, seeing him to the tent door. Then she returns, standing there and looking down at the young girl of Gondor, considering carefully. After a few moments, she says, "Obviously Lord Alphros does not wish to see you in chains. I will give you one chance. /One/ chance. If you ever attempt to flee," he eyes flit to the tent-flap doorway, "I will have chains placed on you that will require a blacksmith to put on, and take off. Right now, you are in the best position a woman of Gondor could ever dream or hope for in Harad. Do not endanger your position with foolish notions until you understand fully your situation." she warns.

 

Farielle's eyes follow Eruphel's to the tent door, lingering there a long moment. Then she looks away in defeat, and nods, looking down at her hands.

 

Nodding in satisfaction, Eruphel sits back at her former place on the cushions. "That's good. I will have a proper cot brought in for you. Good clothing will likely need to wait till we get to Umbar. If you require something, ask Hayya. Now, eat. You cannot think properly without some food in you, and you'll be wanting your strength back, I suspect."

 

 

Umbar. Her head still bowed, Farielle closes her eyes in despair. After a minute, she opens them and reaches rather blindly for the tray; her hand closing about a piece of meat, which she takes a small bite of, and then holds - forgotten, maybe, like the cheese she still has. A long while later, she finishes them both.


	5. Chapter 5

_'The Gondorians are driven out...'  Those words echoed over and over in Farielle's mind until she wanted to scream.  'Where is she to run?'  They were gone.  No one had come for her.  If this man - this king - but how could he be king?  He was a Haradrim!  And the line of kings was broken; there was only the Steward now.  If she was who she said she was, she would be married to him.  Haradrim.  Pretender.  Liar.  Servant of the Enemy._

_Marriage - and after, there would be children... the thought of it filled her with sick horror.  Unbidden, her mother's voice spoke in her memory:  'You are a scion of a great lineage, Farielle.  You must always comport yourself worthily of those whose blood runs in yours.  Even in your  marriage...'  Her mother had hesitated, then smiled and patted the young girl's cheek gently.  'But do not fear.  Your father will choose wisely and kindly, and your husband will be a great and honorable man.  Only remember, it was the daughter of Mirethlas herself, the elven maid, who married your forefather, and thus her blood is yours.  Never bring shame to her memory.'_

_She would not marry him.  She would not!  But what could she do?  If they wouldn't even consider ransom; if her people were gone from these shores, leaving her behind..  Farielle bit her lip, sitting on the cot Hayya had wrestled into place at Lady Eruphel's orders.  She thought of her brothers, of her parents.  What would Eruiglas do? she wondered - but she knew.  She'd been very young, but she still remembered the day her oldest brother, newly knighted, had stormed home from Dol Amroth.  She'd been playing in a corner near the fireplace when he and Father had come into the room, and she'd crept close to listen.  Eruiglas had scowled at her when Father took her on his lap.  'She's too young!' he grumped, but then he rumpled her hair and she'd known she could stay._

_Her brother, oldest, stiff with honor, so proud of his heritage, so aghast at discovering a brother knight in some lapse of honor.  She idolized him.  There was no question what he would do, caught in the trap she was in.  And Gwaithmir, who'd memorized all the songs about elves before he was even sent to school and was so noble he told the cook in a fit of remorse that they'd snuck his apple tarts before they were even cool!  And even Lomin who'd played with her and studied with her and had always been fiercely intent on out-Knighting Eruiglas._

_She set her shoulders.  Perhaps they would never know, but she too would be as valiant as her brothers.  She would be worthy of her name._

 

It was hot earlier, but now an evening wind sweeps in with the tide, damp and lukewarm and curling the smoke above the Haradrim cook-fires. The camps sprawl among rubble, bloodstained many of them, with guards and bristling weapons aplenty.

 

Nisrin stalks quietly among the guards, waving away questions with a merry, disarming smile. She carries a basket and now approaches the tent of Eruphel, Lady Seaward.

 

Farielle is where she has been all the time. Inside the tent. Once, she dared so far as to look out the doorflap, but no farther. The guards at the doorway were more than enough to discourage any further exploration - if the throngs of dark-skinned people (among whom she would stand out like a beacon on a hill) hadn't already done the trick. And now she sits on the cot that Eruphel has given her at last, after that man had come to look at her, and does nothing. There is nothing to do.

 

"Let me in," begs a girl's voice playfully, quite close to the tent-flap. "I have dinner?"

 

There is a voice outside, and Farielle glances towards the doorway then away. Then a low chuckle, and one of the guardsmen says something in reply, and then sunlight streams in as the tent door is held open. 

 

The slim, dark form of a young woman enters, perhaps a few years younger and a head shorter than the Gondorian lady. There is a lively bounce to her step as she tip-toes about the various compartments of Eruphel's lodgings, coming at last to stand a stone's throw from the cot.

 

"Good day," she says politely to Farielle, her Westron academic and ill-practiced, a catlike smile curving on her lips. "I have brought dinner, if you are hungry."

 

Farielle has been studying her hands, paying no attention to the newcomer - clearly, it is nothing that will concern her. Surprise flashes across her face as the person stops in front of her. She looks up, her expression clearly asking if the girl before her means her.  Clearing her throat, she says cautiously, "Yes. Thank you." Her voice sounds rough and unpracticed, as if she hasn't been talking much recently. A pause and bluntly, "Why?"

 

The Haradrim girl pauses, setting the basket carefully on the ground. "Because I am not hungry and you may be, and I don't like goat-stew," Nisrin says, taking a step closer. She crosses her arms, peering at the other woman. Her smile toys with some thought or another, though cruelty does not permeate it: "And there were rumors. I wanted to see the Northern woman who hitched up her skirts and marched over to Caldur of Farside, for the sake of some sweetheart or something..."

 

 

Goat-stew. Farielle wrinkles up her nose, but says again, politely, "Thank you. It was a kind thought." Her stomach growls, but she doesn't reach for the basket. At the girl's last words, something like anger or bitterness stiffens her face - and she doesn't try to mask it, but twitches feet and hands to show the bandages around her ankles and wrists. "I did not choose to come here," she says flatly.

 

 

Nisrin grins, "I know. So it is true then: your men command you, and you go. It is a sad life you must have led in your camp: you will do better in ours."  The girl cants her head. "This is your first time meeting our people? I have never seen a lady of the North before."

 

Anger flashes in Farielle's blue-grey eyes. "/My/ people tried to rescue me. It was yours who brought me here, bound and against my will." She shuts her mouth into a thin, tight line, but opens it again to say fiercely, "I will not! What life is this to desire, shut into this tent to be sold off to whoever comes along, never to see my family again, and no choice even in what I am given to eat?" She doesn't answer Nisrin's question, turning her head aside to hide a sudden up-welling of grief as painful as if someone has hit her in the stomach.

 

Nisrin half-rises. "I did not mean to twist the knife," she says calmly, her features settling back into a decidedly uncurious, staid demeanor. Then, awkwardly, "Is there anything else I can bring you?"

 

Farielle is silent, wrestling her emotions down until she can speak composedly again. "A knife," she mutters, then gives Nisrin a twisted, almost-smile, saying dully, "There is nothing you can give me that I want."

 

"Your life should be sufficient." comes a man's voice from the tent flap as  another occupant of Eruphel's tent returns to it. Eron's armor is rent, and blood splattered. In fact, the chain seems more patch than origional steel.  Eron looks from the captured Gondorian to his sister. "Behaving?"

 

"Freedom?" asks Nisrin quietly. "That is a price too high, I fear." She whirls, shrinking back reflexively from the tall armored man, before standing and squaring her position before the Gondorian's cot. "We are well," she says, continuing in Westron, the quaver of defensiveness in her tone. "Were you hurt, brother?"

 

The Gondorian woman is silent where she sits on the cot, lifting her chin a little and looking back at Eron.  The stew in the basket at her feet is still fragrant, though it is cooling swiftly, uneaten like this.

 

Eron nods curtly to Nisrin. "I am glad you are well, sister. This one, I'll as soon keel-haul as converse with. It's like speaking with one without wits I'd imagine. I hope she is worth our trouble." Eron moves to set his armaments down. "I'm fine. No Gondorian steel found anything vital. Though my armor will need replacing once we reach home."

 

"As expected," Nisrin murmurs, her expression hidden by dark curls. She gestures to Farielle, saying, "There is nothing of import. I had brought dinner, and assumed neither Hayya nor Lady Seaward were present. May I linger?"

 

The insults have no effect, sinking like stones into water and vanishing without a trace of any response. Farielle's blue-grey eyes don't flicker, her pale face doesn't flush. She does glance down, almost automatically, at the basket as Nisrin mentions it.

 

"If you wish." Eron says dismissively. He's not the warm, cuddly kind of brother these days. Life is different outside of Umbar.  He turns his attention onto the prisoner, but says nothing for a time. "If she eats, she eats, if she doesn't it will be what it will be. Should negotiations turn sour, I'll have Eruphel give her to me to appease The Eye."

 

Nisrin perches by the cot, rocking back and forth. At Eron's words she stiffens, sparing Farielle an almost pitying, protective glance. "She is weakened, brother. Surely there are robust Gondorian soldiers aplenty that would better slake His thirst?" she asks casually.

 

Something flashes in Farielle's eyes at the mention of her people's long Enemy, but it is gone again, equally swiftly. It is Nisrin's words, meant to spare her, that bring anger to burn once again. But still she remains silent and unmoving.

 

Eron is ever watchful. A match easily for Rangers or Knights of Gondor, as has been proven this endeavor. "There is fight in this one, not weakness. And you'd do best not to question my opinions in regards to a suitable gift for the Dark Lord. You forget who I served under for nearly as long as you've lived, sister."

 

"I know well enough," hisses Nisrin, slipping suddenly into the swift tongue of her homeland. She stands, regarding her brother coldly. "But she is not yours. Have you no pity for the girl? While you were off killing things in the East, your compassion died as well."  The girl pauses near the tent-flap. "I am sailing home on the Arambodh, I would think. A good day to you, brother," she says blandly in Westron.

 

Farielle's gaze darts to Eron and drops away, and she bends her head, drooping a little, subtly, as if she is trying not to let it show. Nisrin starts to leave, but the Gondorian doesn't look up from watching her hands where they are folded in her lap.

 

If Eron is at all offended by his sister's outburst, there is no outward signs of it. Which could be a bad thing. "Sail home with your precious Yildirim, if you will. In fact, I'll have your belongings moved to Farside Tower once we arrive back in Umbar, if that is your wish." Eron's calm tone offers as much insult as Nisrin's.  For now Farielle is ignored.

 

"That is very giving of you, Lord Eron, though I doubt Farside could match Seaward's accommodations for Lady Nisrin," comes Yildirim's voice as he steps also into the tent, in front of Nisrin, a toothy grin bright upon his face.  It has been sometime since he has looked fresh, cleaned and rested, but today is so. He spares a glance beyond Nisrin towards the prisoner, offering a friendly, if absurd, wave, "And a good day to you as well, Lady." For Nisrin he but holds a smile, no words.

 

"I am sorely tempted," replies Nisrin in a low hiss. But now another enters, and the girl shuffles back towards Farielle's cot, quiet but darting glances towards Eron, tensed much like a threatened cat.

 

Farielle looks up as someone else comes in, and is startled for the umpteenth time that day by Yildirim's friendly greeting to her. The wary, tense expression slips a little and a small, puzzled frown draws her fine, dark eyebrows together. Her gaze goes between the three Haradrim, watching the interplay between them, though her eyes wince away from Eron - perhaps she is more afraid of him now.

 

"Since when is the tent of Lady and Lord Seaward open to whomever wishes to enter unanounced?" Eron says in Yildirim's direction. His tone is annoyed, but not overly incensed. "That which I speak to my sister is my own. And she seems quite taken with you and your lot. Which leads me to question her loyalty, to both Tower AND House." Eron crosses his arms over his chest. Either war has dulled his sense of tact, or he isn't ready to stop fighting yet.

 

"Ah."  Yildirim hesitates a moment, eyes moving from Nisrin, to Farielle and then to Eron.  "Should I return later then with the casualty report Farside has thus far collected for Seaward?" and in deed, there is a rolled parchment in his hand.

 

Nisrin glowers. "I have sworn nothing, Eron."

 

"Yet you agreed to sail on a Farside ship as a Seaward Envoy. Our house, and everyone in it, is Seaward. Everyone but the pupils in our walls. You included, as a noble lady of Hashikh. But if you feel you've sworn nothing, I'll have the Lady Seaward hear over it. I'll not be bogged down in this politicking, and seeing my own sister debase herself thus."  Eron then turns his attention to Yildirim. "As for your report. I understand it to be of great import. Your welcome here is not questioned, simply your unannounced entry. What if Eruphel was here, and was dressed inappropriately? An announcement of your arrival is all I had wished."

 

The Gondorian woman's attention focuses suddenly, intently, on the newcomer at the mention of casualty reports.  Absently, she rubs at one of the bandages around her wrists.

 

Yildirim motions over his shoulders, "Should the guards not then slow my entry? Ah, it is no bother, Lord Eron. Of course, you are correct."  Seeking various diversions, he offers both the rolled paper and a question, "How is the Lady? She is, thus far, the only woman among the prisoners. Have you a chance to speak to her much? She seems a woman of quality."

 

Farielle bows her head to hide her expression, which is something of a smirk at Yildirim's question; considering what Eron has just said about his desire to talk to her.

 

Nisrin inclines her head, her lips tight. "I understand, brother." She glances over to the Gondorian lady, saying nothing but observing intently.

 

"I'm not very adept at speaking with the spoils of war. Eruphel has people for that I would imagine. My understanding is she's to be kept in good care, else she'd not be bound where -I- must sleep." Eron waves his hands dismissively, as if to push the awkward conversations from before out, so those within can speak as kin and comrades.

 

"May I?" Yildirim questions, with a slight motion towards the prisoner.

 

Eron shrugs and motions for Yildirim to do as he pleases, as he moves to pour himself a glass of wine from a nearby decanter, unrolling the paper and bending over it.

 

Passing Nisrin, Yildirim takes the chance offered and squats before Farielle. He looks her over briefly, some attention paid to the bandages, "I am Yildirim an Kaplan, Corsair for Farside Tower."

 

The young man appears suddenly in Farielle's field of vision, and she looks at him. Her expression is a curious blend of dispassion and resolution. After a moment, she says, "I am Farielle Girithlin. You will forgive me if I do not say I am pleased to meet you."

 

Nisrin smiles, if only for a moment, at Yildirim. She turns on her heel to leave. "Eat," she says to the lady, more coaxing than commanding, and ducks back under the tent-flap.

 

A brief glance for Nisrin as she takes a hurried leave and then Yildirim looks back to Farielle, "Lady Girithlin. I have not met one of your family. Though I have read something of it. From Belfalas, yes?" 

 

Yildirim then widens his smile, "Do not worry about hurting my feelings. I have been both prisoner and guest of your people and know the awkwardness found therein."  The young man's lips twist in contemplation, "You are... sixteen? Seventeen?"

 

"Near there," Farielle says, cautiously. She looks away at the mention of her family, blinking. But her gaze flies back to his at his next comment, her eyes widening and suddenly uncertain. "Nineteen," she whispers.

 

"And what do you do?" comes the Corsair's next question.

 

"Do?" Farielle asks, confused. She looks down at the cot. "Sit here, mostly. Or did you mean be-before." Her voice falters the smallest amount.

 

"You came along with a small army of Gondorians to rescue the Order of the Swan from certain destruction. Why would they bring you?" Yildirim asks again.

 

"Oh. I came to help the healers. I do not know much about it, but Mother said it would be good for me to learn a little. For balance." This she says in an expressionless voice, looking down again so that he can't see her eyes. It seems for a minute, she will say something more, but then she doesn't.

 

"Your mother sent you to Caldur?" he says, incredulously.  He sniffs, either amused or impressed by this statement.  "I suspect the next trip offered to you she will be more hesitant."  He glances at Eron, disposed with his report, and whispers, "Have you been tortured? Beaten? Abused?"

 

"She - " Farielle's voice breaks, and she stops, her hands closing into fists and the fingernails digging into her palms. After a few minutes, when she has control of herself again, she says, "She sent me to Dol Amroth, to work with the healers. They packed up and came to Caldur, and - and I came with them. My brother was in the Keep." 

 

At his whispered question, she looks up, her eyes confused again. Then she shakes her head, and in an equally quiet whisper says, "No. The .. the lady here said she would did I try to run away  - but no one has touched me. Only - " she falters again, then finishes resolutely. "Only the men who - who took me. From the ropes." She lifts a wrist an inch from her lap and lets it fall back again. There is a pause and then she asks, "Why do you care?"

 

"Do not be mistaken, my Lady Farielle," Yildirim whispers again, surprisingly having little trouble with her name, "I am the snake in this matter, the friendly face that calms and comforts you. Certainly not to be trusted."

 

"But, I am Farside and you are held by Seaward and there is a difference there. For Gondor, we are the same, but there are many differences between us and you are well to learn them now that you are in Umbar. I am your enemy, no doubt, perhaps even if your brother was slain it was by my hand. But as you are now, your choice of what you may call friend is a limited and unsatisfying thing. In circumstances such as these, perhaps that is what I am to you now."

 

Farielle listens, paying attention, learning what he tells her - but oddly, there is an air of indifference. As if it doesn't really matter. At the end, she nods and asks, slightly curious, "What is Farside? Is it a House?"  The basket with now-cold stew in it still sits at her feet, untouched.

 

He laughs, spoiling whatever secrecy there may be between them now.  "I am sorry, but that was unexpected. Allow the lessons in Haradrim society to fall to me. Certainly, few others shall give them. Oh," he adds, offhandly, "I too am nineteen. In the late summer."

 

"Umbar is ruled by five Towers, Farside, Seaward, Desert, Black and," a pause, "The Dark Citadel. Each has a Lord, or Lady, that rules absolute for that Tower. The rule of the city is by that counsel of five. Outside of Umbar, things are less formal. There are fiefs, like Caldur here, ruled by a tower or family. Tribes further out have their lands. But the power of Harad is found in Umbar and with those five."

 

His laughter brings an actual smile to Farielle's face. Faint and fleeting, but there. She listens much as before, with attention and some interest, but detached. As if she learns from inclination and habit, but doesn't expect the information to be important in her life. "I see." And after a moment, offered in return, "My birth day is in the spring."

 

Her indifference is noted and Yildirim's brow creases, "Be wary, lady. I know little of your fate. Normally, prisoners are ransomed back to their families, a price paid for a life. But you are a prize that has cost Seaward much. For every man of Gondor that lies dead on that field, I have counted five of the south. A good showing for Gondor that bodes ill for you. You have become a very expensive prize. What knowledge I am willing to impart to you could have very measurable effects on how," again he hesitates, "Comfortable your stay can be. Take it as not a threat, for you are not my prisoner, but as fact, snake or no, and heed it as such."

 

"I am grateful for your ... gift," Farielle says, sincerely. "I am listening." To prove it, she repeats back to him what he has told her.   "I said that my father would pay any ransom," she says, "but I do not think anyone listened." She hesitates, then says slowly, "A man came. To - to look at me." She shudders all over, convulsively.

 

"Oh? Tell me of him," Yildirim requests.

 

"He wore a cloth over his face," Farielle says. "I do not remember his name. I - I was distracted." Her eyes are shadowed, remembering the fog of terror and bewilderment that covered everything. Then some other random bit of information comes to mind, and she tells the Haradrim that also. "He said, if I chose to stay, the food would be good. As if I have any choices." The words are bitter, but oddly, her voice is not.

 

"A cloth over his face," Yildirim repeats, fingers itching at his chin, "If you are fair and even with that man, he shall be so with you. If you are not, he shall not. There are far worst men to fear," his eyes dancing briefly towards Eron and his attentions.

 

"You know him?" Farielle asks, but not as if she expects an answer. She is silent, her eyes following his to Eron. "I do not want to be sold like - like a cow to the highest bidder," she says plaintively, but with a self-mocking quirk to her mouth that says she knows very well that what she wants is no longer of any importance to anyone. She shivers again. Her words may be light, but the fear behind them is real.

 

"There are few that can be described such, so I say I think I know that man. If you hear the mew of cats nearby when he is, he is the same."  Yildirim continues, "I rather you not be sold either. But, you are in Seaward's care and there are differences."

 

"For now, is there word you would send to Gondor?"

 

For the first time, Farielle shows a real emotion - not simply something flitting over the surface of her face and eyes. Astonishment, and a kind of terrible hope. It is extinguished in the next moment, forcibly. Her eyes hold his for a long minute, then drop to her hands once more. When she speaks, her voice is very controlled - both resigned and resolute. "I do not wish my family ignorant of my fate."

 

"Easy enough. I have a ship and the means to sail her. I shall, upon gathering Lady Seaward's permission, deliver a note to a Gondorian patrol that Lady Farielle lives. Naught more?" he questions once again.

 

Farielle closes her eyes and draws in a long slow breath. She lets it out again. "When?" she asks him. There is a strange urgency in her voice, and her hands are clenched again. 

 

After a moment, she adds, her voice very low, "Tell them... my choices were my own. That I ask them not - not to seek retribution." Quieter still. "Tell them that I love them." She doesn't look at him again, her face turned down and her eyes hidden.

 

"It shall be done," Yildirim concludes adding but, "On the morrow if I am able."  He stands, some pity in his eye for the young woman. He walks away, parting the flap then stops and looks back, "Things are hard for you, but harder for the dead, no?" The flap slaps shut behind him and he is gone.

 

Surely that cannot be dismay that crosses her face at his answer. But all she says is, "Thank you." And when he is gone: "Easier, I think," Farielle says under her breath, too quiet for anyone to hear, even if they were standing right beside her.


	6. Chapter 6

_People came and went in the tent.  Not many.  It was quiet mostly.  Servants, Farielle thought they must be, for they straightened things or delivered things or took them away again.  Once someone brought her a plate of food and refilled the water jug by her bed.  She ate a little.  No one spoke to her, though most of them turned to stare at her at least once - sometimes with hatred, sometimes with scorn.  Once or twice with pity._

_A man lifted the tent-flap and slipped outside.  She heard his voice, bantering by the tone, and the guards replies.  They laughed, and then it was quiet again.  Very quiet.  Farielle sat up and looked around.  There was no one here.  She darted a glance at the tent door, then as quietly as she could, she stood up.  Drawing in a quivering breath, she padded across to where Hayya slept and knelt beside his bed to feel under it._

_Disappointment, as bitter as salt, filled her mouth.  He must have moved it.  Or perhaps he kept it with him.  She stood up, looking around the tent; then hurried towards the table.  Perhaps ... with delicate fingers, she tapped the papers spread over it.  Nothing._

_Something scratched at the tent door, and she jumped, staring at it with wide eyes.  But no one came in, and she tried to calm her breathing.  Where else might a knife be kept?  Her gaze stopped on the curtain that divided the Lord and Lady's sleeping area from the rest.  Yes, of course.  There, if anywhere.  She took a step towards it, swallowing hard.  If someone came in - the casual contempt in Eron's eyes, the threat in Eruphel's - Farielle took a deep breath and walked swiftly towards the curtain._

_Someone coughed outside, then spoke to the guards.  Farielle turned and almost ran towards her cot as they replied.  A shaft of hot sunlight made a triangle on the floor as the tent flap was opened.  She had just enough time to plunk her self down on the floor by the water jug before Hayya came in.  He looked at her, but didn't stop or speak._

_Farielle closed her eyes in relief.  He hadn't seen.  'But now what?' she wondered.  'I have no poison, I can't get a knife.'  She didn't even bother looking up at the billowing tent roof as she thought mordantly, 'I certainly can't hang myself!'_

_Water slopped over the mug rim, wetting her hand, and she stilled, looking down at it.  'Of course.  If I can just be strong for long enough.  No one pays much attention to me, if I lie quietly, maybe they will get used to seeing me like that, so that when...'  But her thoughts shied away from that.  Death from thirst was a terrible thing.  She had seen a man once...  'Mother,' she thought desperately, 'Help me!'_

_She sat on the bed, holding the mug, and looked fleetingly at Hayya.  He was busy with something; his back turned towards her.  Deliberately, she poured the water on the ground behind her cot, and laid down._

 

 

The sun is hot. It's always hot here, Farielle thinks, but today, the sun seems to be beating malevolently down on the tent roof, burning through it in a huge throbbing ball. She has been lying on the cot, as per usual, but now she lifts a hand to her head, shaking it slightly, and rolls onto her back. She stares unseeingly at the cushions and curtains and pieces of furniture that make up the interior of the tent, and tries to swallow. It hurts.

 

Quiet steps, and the shift and clink of iron spears and staffs. "I have come to bring food for the lady prisoner," says Nisrin in Westron, a little irritated.

 

A voice... one she recognizes, speaking Common. Farielle stirs, but in the end, doesn't move.

 

The dark form of the younger woman slips through the tent-flap. Nisrin casts cautious glances about, ensuring that her brother is appropriately absent, then smiles wanly at the lady. "You do not enjoy the Southern noon," she murmurs.

 

Farielle blinks. Then slowly, she pushes herself upright, swaying a little as if she is dizzy. "No," she says, and moves her mouth a little. "It is so very hot," she adds after a minute. A pause. Then she smiles back at Nisrin.

 

"I can get you some more water," offers the girl haltingly, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her corsair's vest -- it seems she has come without purpose, emptyhanded and seeking no Lady or Lord Husband Seaward. "You do not look well -- that is, worse than yesterday," she observes.

 

Farielle's pale skin is somehow even whiter, and her actions are slow and uncertain. After a moment, she shakes her head, then says, after that, "Thank you. I am given plenty of water." She swallows again. After another minute, perhaps seeking to distract the younger girl, she asks, "Your name... is Nisrin?"

 

"Nisrin Hashikh," affirms the girl, eyes resting on an ewer lying by the cot, then flicking back up to the pale lady. "My brother is Eron.  But we are not very close; he is more of a guardian. You said you had a brother in Caldur Keep," Nisrin prompts carefully.

 

"Nisrin Hashikh," Farielle repeats carefully. She doesn't mangle the name too badly. After a minute or two of silence, she nods. "Yes.  Two."  There is a pause while she works her mouth a little to find some saliva to keep talking with.   "I hope that they are safe, but I do not know."   There is something desolate in the simple words - though she does not say so, it is evident there is a deep bond between the siblings.

 

"What are their names?" asks Nisrin almost shyly, ensuring first that none of her family is present. "I think you shall see them again," she adds encouragingly, "if after a long time. When Lord Alphros takes what he has claimed..."

 

A shudder runs through Farielle's body, though she can't possibly be cold, and she looks away. "Lominzil," she replies, her voice suddenly dull. "And Eruiglas."  But now that she has made peace with the fact of never seeing her family again, it is a comfort to think of them, and slowly, almost dreamily, she goes on.  "Eruiglas is much older than I, but Lomin is only a year older.  He looks like me, a little. But taller, of course." A pause. Her voice sounds a little hoarse. "When we were little, we did everything together; even taking harp lessons. I miss him."

 

"I do not think he was taken," says Nisrin after a pause, regarding the Gondorian woman carefully. "But it was very difficult fighting in the streets."  The Haradrim girl crosses to the ewer, pouring herself a cup. "The harp?" she asks -- curiosity without malice. "What do the noblewomen of Gondor learn?"

 

Farielle's gaze fixates on the water as it gurgles out of the urn into Nisrin's cup. She tears her eyes away, letting them drift shut as if she is thinking. "Oh, many things," she says slowly. "It depends. Some. On what house you are of. We... we learned music and painting and how to make tapestries, and how to ride and to hunt. I was learning to look after our finances, when... when Mother said I should go to learn a little of healing."

 

"But not to fight," notes Nisrin absently, pouring another cup and offering it to Farielle. "I had wondered why there were no women among the ranks."

 

The Gondorian woman hesitates a moment, then takes the cup, holding it idly. "Why would I want to fight?" she asks, surprised into a little more alertness.

 

"Why would you not?" answers Nisrin, equally surprised. She crosses her legs and takes a sip of water. "I know little of your people, save their actions upon the battlefield. But at times even the women must fight, or die. It would be a useful skill, even if you were to be a healer."

 

"Only when your people attack," Farielle replies in a low voice whose bitterness seems to surprise even her. But she doesn't apologize. Her breathing is a little faster, a little shallower; maybe not enough to notice. She shuts her eyes again, rubbing at her face with her empty hand.

 

"Your Knight-Captain invaded our land first," says Nisrin, clenching her jaw. "They killed my mentor, too. He taught me to play the lute." Taking a deep breath, she sits back and looks away. "That was ignoble of me. I am sorry," the girl ventures.

 

"Imrakhor is a fool, if not a madman," Farielle says wearily, dropping her hand to her lap. "But I spoke.. not only of now. But in the past. Long years. Always fighting. There are no battles in Gondor, save with your people, and ..." But she doesn't finish that sentence. A long pause. "You play the lute? Would - would you play for me?" Her tongue seems thick, though not enough to make her slur her words. Not yet.

 

"And the ..." Nisrin shivers for a moment, glancing away. "Ah, the lute! Do you play it too? Sing with me? Dance? I will play for you if it will help with the heat," she says with forced cheerfulness. "It would not do for you to collapse from sun-sickness. After all, you might be a Queen!"   Allowing the other lady a small smile, the girl ducks out of the tent, later to return with the promised instrument.

 

"I do not think I can dance just now," Farielle says carefully. She makes her smile rueful, as if laughing at the frailties of a body accustomed to coolness and damp. "But I would like it if you played. If it will not disturb anyone." She sets the cup of water down so as not to spill it, and then lies back on the cot again, letting her eyes drift shut to the gentle notes of the music.


	7. Chapter 7

_The day has passed, slowly, since Nisrin left.  Farielle was all but overwhelmed by visions of water - water spilling down the waterfall outside their house, water gurgling in the brook, water lapping at the shores of the sea, water splashing grey and cool on the pond on rainy winter days, the water in the jug just beside her bed.  It was all she could do not to reach over and pour the contents of that jug down her throat.  She lay in bed and concentrated with all her strength on something else.  Anything else._

_She drifted, letting the small sounds of the tent wash in and out of awareness.  It was so hot.  The sun here must be hotter than the sun at home.  Someone laughed, and she was swept into a sudden memory.  She'd been 10 maybe, or 11.  Lomin had been away to Dol Amroth - the first time they'd ever been apart for more than a few days.  But he was to be home any day now, and she had decided to go up the road a little ways to meet him.  The sun had been hot then, too._

Spring is come, and everything is rejoicing - the fields have never been greener, the sky never bluer. The sun shines brightly over rippling brooks and wind-blown trees - and one young girl, about 11, who has strewn her hair with flowers and is hanging over a stone fence watching the road.

 

A small cloud of dust rises down the road, stamped by swift and slender feet. It is Lominzil, just one year older, blue-eyed, wild-haired, and his sister's twin, were he not pink and breathless from running. Indeed, his sprint carries him past the girl...

 

"Lomin, Lomin!" Farielle shrieks, jumping down and running through the gate after him. Her flowers slip cockeyed on her head, until they are hanging over one ear; her hair is unbraiding itself.

 

Lominzil screeches to a halt and promptly droops, panting as his thick dark hair slips damply into his eyes: he is long overdue for a haircut. "Fari!" he emits excitedly, then frowns and reaches for the knapsack on his back. It is open.

 

"Oh," he murmurs, trotting back down the road and away from her, "I dropped my book."

 

"You are /still/ always dropping things!" she scolds him, smiling hugely. She turns and skips along the road beside him. "What book is it? Did you learn lots and lots? Remember, you promised to tell me /everything/!"

 

Lominzil picks up the book, child-sized but quite old and dusty, and stuffs it back into his knapsack. "Sir Aramore says I am clumsy as an ox," sighs he, scuffing his boot. "It is about history! About Elves and Men and the West. I would tell you, but Gwaithmir tells better stories."

 

Farielle stops as the flower crown threatens to loose hold on her head entirely, and readjusts it, frowning with concentration. "You're not clumsy," she says heatedly, then her eyes grow wide. "Elves? Our elves or other ones?"  She giggles, tucking her hand into his arm. "I know he does, but I want you to tell it. I will make Gwaithmir tell me other stories."

 

"Other Elves," decides Lominzil firmly. "There was one called Nolfingol, and his brother made a star. The brother also invented tengwar! But Golfinnol was the one who fought in single combat with the Foe." He takes Farielle's arm, planting a brotherly kiss on the top of her head. "Gwaithmir is going to run out of stories someday!"

 

"He /made/ a star?" Farielle sounds awed. She walks along beside him, skipping a step now and then. "I didn't know even the elves could do /that/!" Single combat with the Foe doesn't seem to interest her very much as she chatters on. "I have made you a present. To say 'welcome home'. But it is a surprise, and I'm not telling you what it is. Not until after supper! And, Lomin, guess what! The old mare had a foal! Even papa was surprised. He laughed and said he didn't know old Barahun had it in him - he must have jumped the fence."

 

"I am hungry already," complains Lominzil, his stomach growling like a wolf. "A foal, you say?" he replies, his eyes round as saucers. "Goodness! If it is Barahun's child, it will have a bumpy gait! And then you will fall if you are not careful -- like I did in Dol Amroth," he adds, tugging his sleeve up to show, proudly, a fading scar. "I broke my arm."

 

"Come on then!" Farielle tugs at his arm. "Mother made ... but that is a surprise too!" She hasn't stopped smiling since she's seen him - or possibly since she woke up that morning - or quite possibly since the foal was born last week. Or maybe since she was born. But she stops in sheer shock and stares at his arm. "You /broke/ it! Lominzil, what were you /doing/?" A sniff and a toss of her hair. "I will not fall off. Is it all healed? It doesn't hurt anymore does it? No one even /told/ me!"  She sounds very aggrieved by this last failing.

 

"I was sparring with another Page," recalls the boy, waving his arm officiously, "and nearly beat him down! But then he swung and I caught it the wrong way. It was sticking out like this." Lominzil demonstrates with great gusto. "The healers say that it will be fine before I become a Squire."

 

Farielle's eyes are entirely round as her brother demonstrates how his arm looked. "Didn't it hurt?" she asks, awed, then sighs enviously. "You're so brave. I have never broken anything, and I don't want to either!"

 

"Not very much!" says Lominzil confidently, beaming down at his sister. "Well, yes. Somewhat. Very much so. But I don't remember what happened after that," he admits. "Only that I wasn't allowed to go outside, and had to read many many books in bed. And write with the left hand -- my 'r's will never be the same."

 

"I bet you were bored," Farielle says wisely. Then she giggles. "Stuck inside reading! Poor Lomin! It is too bad Gwaithmir wasn't there, he likes doing that."

 

"Yes, but he would never break an arm," Lominzil points out. He adjusts his knapsack and fluffs his hair back out of his face. "Is Gwaithmir well? Eruiglas sends his love from Dol Amroth, of course. He is terribly busy, being a New Knight and all."

 

Horse hooves on ancient pavers announces the arrival of another to the scene. 'Round one of the old Elven dwellings comes a tall chestnut hunter, simply saddled, though the rings of her bridle bear the star of the Girithlin. Her rider is a comely young man, his pale complexion suffused with the glow of joy so often seen on the faces of the young in spring. The man's tunic is rolled up behind him, leaving him in his shirtsleeves. A small harp is attached to the back of his saddle, where most would carry saddle bags. His free hand, resting on his knee, carries a bouquet of wildflowers.

 

"Oh yes," she answers sunnily. "He is making up songs again. I think papa..." The sound of hooves brings her head around. "Well, you can see for yourself."

 

 Lominzil spins about, still slightly pink from his sprint. "Oh," he says, tilting his head quizzically. "The air in Minas Tirith must have gotten to him! Are those flowers?"

 

Bringing his horse to a stop, Gwaithmir raises said flowers as though surprised, "Why, so they are, Master Observant! Your knight must be every day praising your attention to details." Lightly dismounting, Gwaithmir ruffles Lominzil's hair. To Farielle, however, he bows and presents the flowers, "For you, my lady." He gives his little sister a smile that could melt stone.

 

Farielle turns pink. And more unusually, silent. Eyes sparkling with delight, she curtsies very carefully, and takes the flowers. "Thank you, kind sir," she says gravely. And the dam is broken. "They're for me!" she tells Lomin loftily. "Men are allowed to carry flowers when they are giving them to Ladies! Gwaithmir, Lomin is home!"

 

"Hello, Brother! He makes me read books and calls me an ox," mutters Lominzil, his hair draping floppily over his face. To Farielle he looks adoringly, scrubbing his grimy hands on his trousers. "I haven't any flowers," he admits regretfully.

 

Gwaithmir grins at Farielle's enthusiasm, carrying that smile over to Lominzil. "Why this hatred of books, Lomin? They are lovely things. Filled with stories about brave knights, hopeless quests, and beautiful ladies! Being a Knight is more than waving a sword about. You must learn all the courtly graces, too, like Eruiglas. Perhaps I could lend you some of my clothes, a few books, and my harp. We may make a lord of you, yet!" There is a teasing air to his tone, and he ends his suggesting by tickling Farielle's ribs.

 

"Mmm?" Farielle looks up from admiring her bouquet, clearly imagining she is indeed a great lady. "Oh. Don't be silly, Lomin. You brought you. That's just as good." She looks worriedly up at Gwaithmir - she wasn't insulting his gift, truly! - and then writhes and gasps with unwilling laughter and bats at his hands. "Stop it, stop it!" She darts away from him, hiding behind Lominzil.

 

"Next time I will bring you flowers," decides Lominzil. He scowls most fiercely and, arms akimbo, plants his scuffed boots firmly before Gwaithmir, squinting up at him. "Stay thy hand, most fearsome villain! For I would not have thee harm the fair lady so!"  The effect is somewhat spoiled by his voice, which breaks in the middle.

 

Taken momentarily off-guard (or perhaps trying not to laugh at Lomin's untimely squeaking), Gwaithmir blinks at his younger brother. And then he draws himself up to full height, "Out of my way, sir Knight! The lady is mine, as just reward for my victory in the...the...harping contest, and I will claim her!" He bends down quickly to pluck up a weaponly twig, which he holds offensively at Lomin.

 

Farielle giggles. Raising her voice to a higher pitch, she says, "Oh mine brave champion, I should- shouldst give thee a favor!" Holding her bouquet in one hand, she tries to untie her sole remaining hair ribbon with the other - finally managing it after much crossing of eyes and sticking out of tongues. "There," she says triumphantly, draping it over Lominzil's shoulder. "I bestoweth this upon thee, brave sir knight. May - Mayest thou be victorious!"

 

Patting the ribbon, Lominzil looks over at Farielle and beams reassuringly, scooping up a twig of his own. "Gracious lady, have no fear!" And he darts towards Gwaithmir's knees with a child's agility, poking at the booted shin.

 

Gwaithmir gives a cry of agony, bending his knee up so that he is now one-legged. "Aaagh! 'Tis only a scratch!" He pokes his stick at Lominzil, ineffectual little jabs that are not meant to land, meanwhile hopping about on his one foot with surprising agility. "Take that, wretch! And that, and that, and that..." The art of the bards has allowed him to twist his whole countenance into one of menace and supreme arrogance - a literary villain, to be sure.

 

"Yield, sirrah, and thou mayest yet live!" Lominzil whacks the whippy stick about, but it finds a rocks and breaks near his hand! Not to be found at a loss, the boy -- a slender Girithlin, but well-fed and partly trained -- yells fiercely and throws himself bodily at the bigger form of his brother.

 

Gwaithmir gives a crow of triumph at Lominzil's broken stick. A crow that soon turns into a cry of frustration. One slender Girithlin hitting another, and though Gwaithmir has the advantage of size and height, he is also short one foot. He goes tumbling to the ground, landing hard enough that an involuntary 'oof!' is drawn from him. He pokes at Lominzil's shoulder with his stick, this time meaning to hit, "Thou canst not get the better of me! For I am Lord Gannel of...Ganneldor!" He laughs maniacally.

 

The girl bounces from foot to foot, then darts in, bending to pick up Lominzil's half-stick. Jabbing it down at Gwaitmir's shoulder, she shouts, "You're dead! I mean - Thou hast been defeated!"

 

"Oh, I am slain!" cries the page, throwing his head back in agony. "Lady, I have failed you ... eh?" He blinks as the 'lady' delivers the finishing blow to Lord Gannel of Ganneldor.

 

Gwaithmir gurgles as he is stabbed. "Farewell, cruel world!" he exclaims, fist shaking at the apathetic sun. And then his arm falls, body going slack, head tilted to the side, and eyes staring unmoving at a rock.

 

Farielle laughs with pleasure. "We have won, Lomin!" But after a minute, her smile starts to fade. "Gwaith?" She drops to her knees beside him, still clutching the bedraggled flowers in one hand, and shaking him with the other. "Gwaith... stop that!" A note of real anxiety has sharpened her voice, for all she knows it is only pretend.

 

Lominzil also has no answer; he drapes lightly over Gwaithmir's elbow, lashes knit and tangled on a pale cheek.

 

Gwaithmir doesn't react to Farielle's supplications at first. It's the worry in her tone that calls him to action, turning to smile at her. "No worries, dearest. Just a game. Alas," he gestures with his thumb to Lominzil without stirring the arm on which his brother rests, "I fear your champion was also vanquished."

 

"Please, Gwaith... Lomin..." Farielle is almost in tears now, until the older of the brothers 'wakes up'. "Don't /do/ that!" she says, relief making her scold. "Yes," she considers, looking at the younger boy. "But didn't he do well? He knocked you over and everything! He will be a great knight, I know it. Lomin, wake up!"

 

Vanquished champion stirs, bearing a stupidly apologetic smile. "I am sorry. I will not do it again. Oh, Gwaithmir, I have mussed your clothing.

 

Gwaithmir pushes Lominzil off of him gently. "He will make a fine knight, I am sure. You...you what?" This to Lominzil. Gwaithmir checks himself out quickly, discovering every wrinkle that he then begins to assiduously pat down. "The cost of warfare, I am afraid. What reward would you have for your victory, sir Knight?"

 

Farielle sits back on her heels, smiling again. "It is all right," she says with an air of lofty unconcern. "It is /good/ for him to have wrinkles!" 

 

"Tell him you want... tell him..." She tries to help Lominzil without really being able to think of anything.

 

"Dinner," says Lominzil earnestly, accompanied by the growling sound of his stomach.

 

"I will go and pack us a picnic, then." Gwaithmir gives his horse a considering glance. "I will leave you Heleth. You may wander about Edhellond with her, if you like, but do not let me hear of you racing through the fields, you hear me?" A warning finger is pointed at Lominzil.

 

"You would have had that anyways," Farielle says disgustedly. "You should have asked for.... for half his kingdom! Or his daughter's hand in marriage! Or... " She squeals. "We can ride Heleth?" Diving at Gwaithmir, she hugs him ruthlessly about the middle.

 

"He hasn't a daughter yet, and his kingdom is woven of wind and song." Lominzil beams upward at Gwaithmir. "Will there be apples?"

 

Gwaithmir lets Farielle cling to him for a minute before plucking her up beneath her arms to set her in Heleth's saddle. The reins, that he left trailing along the ground, are collected and set in Fariel's hands. "Be careful, dearest." With that he begins to move off towards their father's manor, "There will be apples!" he calls back cheerfully to Lomin.

 

"I am /always/ careful," Farielle shouts after him, indignantly. But it melts like ice in the sun as she grins down at Lominzil. "Climb up! Where shall we go?"

 

The page-boy clambers up into the saddle, peering delightedly over Farielle's head. "To the horizon of that hill, and back!" he exclaims delightedly.

 

Farielle reins the horse around, and leans forward, urging it into a sedate canter - mindful (for the moment!) of Gwaithmir's instructions about no racing.

_Smiling at the memory, Farielle drifted into sleep._


	8. Chapter 8

_Time did strange things when you were trying to die.  Farielle no longer knew how much of it had passed.  She still dreamed of water, but distantly - as something waiting over a horizon she couldn't quite see.  And her thoughts swirled in and out of dreams.  Eruiglas stood before her, his dark hair gleaming in the sun.  He was smiling.  Her parents were laughing in the other room.  This wasn't real, she knew, but she hardly cared.  Hold on, she thought as her brother's image turned transparent and shivered into sand.  Just hold on, a little longer, that's all.  It won't be long._

 

It's midmorning, but - as usual - hot. Inside, the tent is dim; various people have come and gone, mostly leaving the Gondorian woman alone. Farielle is laying on her cot, half twisted so her knees are bent to the side, but her face is looking up. Her eyes are shut, and she is breathing swiftly and shallowly. Her skin is hot and dry, and her face, usually so white, is flushed. Her lips have chapped and cracked.

 

 

"Lady Seaward!" comes a man's voice from the tent door. This is a dark-eyed, broad shouldered man of about 30. He is not one of the guards of this tent, but he wears the livery of Seaward--and from his bearing he seems to be someone important. Or at least self-important. "I am told to seek the Lady here," he says imperiously pushing past the guards and into the tent. 

 

Farielle opens her eyes at the sounds, but shuts them again. Whatever it is, it isn't important. Then she winces, and her mouth opens in a silent cry, as she reaches to rub at a cramp in her arm.

 

 

"Lady?" the man says in Westron as he hurries into the tent. He stops, staring at Farielle. "You are not Lady Seaward. Who are you?" he demands. Then, "Are you ill?"

 

Farielle's eyes fly open and she stares up at the unfamiliar man, warily. Then, carefully and slowly, she says, "I am Farielle. Girithlin." She takes a deep breath, and shakes her head. "I am only tired," she tells him. Her words are slurred just the tiniest amount, as if her tongue is too big for her mouth.

 

 

"Farielle...Giririthrith..." The name comes awkwardly from the soldier. "Tired?" he says, looking at her with a practiced eye. "It would seem not. You are the Lady's guest? Troubled would she be to see her guest so ill." And on that he unslings a waterskin worn crosswise over his chest and uncorks it, handing it to the woman. "Drink."

 

"Guest," Farielle repeats, and laughs, a dry, cracked sound. Then terror springs to her eyes - as well as a flash of nausea that crosses her face. She shakes her head, putting up a hand to ward off the waterskin. "No... please."

 

 

"What do you mean, no?" the man says, thrusting the waterskin her way. "It is hot and you quite obviously have not had enough to drink. Do you wish to die a horrible death of thirst? Do you wish to dishonor the Lady Seaward, so that people will say she mistreats her guests? Drink. I insist on it, in fact. Since you are refusing me, it means you are too ill to decide this already." He steps forward as if to forcibly pour water down the woman's throat.

 

Farielle puts up both hands now, turning her head away. "No," she says almost frantically, "No."

 

 

"This is madness," the still-nameless soldier says. "I will not have one of Lady Seaward's guests die on my watch. You -will- drink. Or I will force you to." He shoves the waterskin into her face.

 

"I'm not her guest," Farielle manages to say, pushing back on the waterskin, keeping her head turned to the side away from the soldier and his very unwelcome help.

 

 

"You are in her tent in her camp, you are not bound, you are guarded. Guest or prisoner, but valued, either way, and I say you will drink." That seems to do it--the soldier tries to grab the woman's hair or head, to tilt her head back and make her open her mouth so he can pour the water down her throat.

 

Her hair is pulled ruthlessly, turning her head, whether she wants it or not. Farielle grits her teeth together, still trying with both hands to push the water away - it splashes over her face and down onto the cot.

 

 

"Guards!" the nameless soldier calls, giving up and shoving Farielle back onto her cot. "See to it that this woman drinks water," he says as one of the door guards ducks his head inside the tent. "Force it down her throat if you must, but the Lady Seaward will be quite displeased with you both if she comes back to find her guest having convulsions from thirst. And see to it that she drinks regularly every hour. I will find a healer and the Lady." Disgusted, he turns and stomps out of the tent.

 

_The guards came boiling into the tent at the soldier's shout, swords half-drawn.  But nothing was wrong.  One rolled his eyes.  The other shook his head in contempt.  After a swift consultation in their own harsh tongue, they tramped over to Farielle's cot._

_"Get up."_

_Farielle shut her eyes firmly and ignored them, but it was useless.  She felt rough hands yanking her up by the shoulders, and someone's fingers dug into her jaw.  It hurt, and she gasped - and water poured down her throat, choking her.  Coughing, swallowing, gagging, at last, the unending stream let up.  At least half of the water had spilled down her body.  But some had been swallowed.  Her eyes were already tearing from the terribly coughing spasms, and now she wept also._

_So close. She'd been so close._

_"If you don't drink every hour like the Sergeant said, we'll pour it down you same as this time."  It was one of the guards, standing over her and staring down with displeasure.  Farielle nodded weakly and he went away._

_And having tasted water, her body suddenly awoke to its cravings again.  Farielle didn't think she would be able to try again.  She wanted to drink so badly that her hands shook, her whole body shook.  Only that she was still coughing water out of her lungs kept her from draining the entire rest of the jug then and there._

_Then her stomach twisted, and she gritted her teeth against a sudden nausea.  When that had passed, she lay back, exhausted and stared up at the roof of the tent.  Tears leaked down her cheeks and dripped into her damp bedding.  Already the finger-marks on her cheeks were reddening; soon they would be bruises._

 

Farielle breathes shallow and swift, and the water that was forced down her throat wasn't enough to repair cracked lips or cool dry eyes and mouth. Not yet.

 

         Entering the tent is the Seaward slave Hayya.  As he enters, he stops near a bowl of water and rinses his hands and splashes some water on his face in an attempt to cool off a bit from the heat. Looking over at the female slave, he shakes his head - it does not look like pity, rather he shakes his head out of disgust or annoyance. Moving over to his cot, he sets down a bundle he carries in his hands, and unwrapping it, he smiles at the finely crafted longsword within. Looking back to the other slave, he says "Are you in need of anything?" 

 

 

"Did she drink?" The voice that speaks outside the tent is commanding, authoritative--and likely recognizable to Farielle as the nameless soldier who first forced her to drink earlier. He brushes his way into the tent, in the livery of Seaward and with the air of someone used to commanding.

 

Despair and fury - two emotions almost impossible to find together - yet they seesaw through Farielle's eyes. Hayya's voice - she knows that one - asks a question and she ignores it. Another man's voice - the emotions intensify, with rage being momentarily uppermost.

 

         As Hayya hears the voice, he sets down his prize and then moves towards the woman. Nearing her cot, he says, "Have you had anything to drink?" His tone is kind for the most part, but it is apparent he is in no mood for games. 

 

 

"Ah, well, I see she is being properly tended," the soldier's deep voice says as he peers over Hayya's shoulder. "Who is she? She says she is not the guest of Lady Seaward? And she refuses to drink."

 

Farielle sets her jaw and refuses also to answer, staring past both of the men as if they are not there, focusing on the roof.

 

 

         Looking to the soldier, Hayya says, "She was captured some time ago. As for what is to be done with her, I have no idea, sir." Picking up a waterskin, he looks to the woman and says, "You can either drink on your own, or I will force you to do so.. your choice."

 

 

"Captured? But she is not bound..." Khaan the soldier says, puzzled. To the woman, he nods grimly. "Best drink on your own. This one can tell you," he gestures to Hayya. "He is a Stonelander like you. Or was, they say."

 

The anger dies away as suddenly as it had come, leaving only despair. "I drank," Farielle says, her voice hoarse and not much more than a whisper. She looks at the men now: for Khaan, reproach. Only a flicker of a glance to Hayya. 

 

         Dropping the waterskin upon the woman's chest, Hayya says, "Drink more." Looking to Khaan, he says, "Where would she run too? She is surrounded by the Armies of Umbar.  Her own people fled for their lives, leaving her here as if she were dead." 

 

"Well, she wishes she were dead, quite obviously," Khaan gestures toward the woman, making a face. "And if she succeeds at it, my guess is it'll be your hide that gets tanned by the Lady Seaward for it. She likes her little pets," the soldier says, taunting Hayya.

 

 

         Looking to the soldier, Hayya says, "My mistress knows that I serve her well, I have killed many a man with my bare hands for merely insulting her." His words are cold as he smiles slyly at the soldier.

 

Farielle doesn't move when the heavy waterskin drops onto her chest. After a while, she lifts a hand to the skin, curling her fingers around the neck. She lifts it, turns her head to one side to take a swallow, then sets it down again.

 

A snort, as Khaan crosses both arms over his chest and eyes the slave. "Your bare hands? Come now. You are welcome to kill me if you can. Here and now. With your bare hands."

 

"Though afterwards, if I deem you unworthy, I may slay you with my blade."

 

         With a slight laugh, Hayya says, "No sir, I would not do such a thing. Not to someone who serves my Mistress, though perhaps I should speak to her on that subject and find out for us." Looking to the woman, he says, "Good. You will finish that before nightfall."

 

The girl refuses to look at Hayya, though for a minute, it looks like she hopes the two of them will get in a fight and, preferably, slaughter each other. Neither does she answer.

 

 

""Speak to her as you like," Khaan answers hautily. "But if you are tending to this captive and the Lady wishes her alive, then see to it that she remains so."

 

 

         To the soldier, Hayya nods and says, "I thank you, sir." 

 

A flicker of a glance towards Khaan, filled with resentment and possibly hatred. Then Farielle is back to staring at the sky.

 

 

"And you..." Khaan goes on, settling his eyes on Hayya. "You are the one that the dark magic brought back from the dead? Or so the rumor is?" His tone seems to suggest that he admires such a thing.

 

Dark magic. Khaan may admire this, but Farielle shivers, as if she is cold.

 

 

         Looking at the soldier, Hayya says "Yes, my mistress risked much to save my life, she sent for the High Priestess Mara, through the power of our Dark lord I was healed and brought back from the brink." Looking down at the woman he shakes his head and says "From that day I have felt.. stronger."

 

 

"Wise was she in that," Khaan nods. "I should speak to her about it. Do you think..." he looks speculatively at the captive woman, "that is her purpose in capturing this one? To use her as a sacrifice of some sort to the Great One? In repayment for your life, no doubt."

 

 

         With a sly smile Hayya looks down at the woman and says "Perhaps that is to be her fate.. Though I would have hoped for someone prettier." Looking to the soldier he says "Though I know my Mistress was not happy to have to resort to the dark arts, but she did none the less to save my life."

 

The girl's eyes widen in horror, and she takes a deep shuddering breath, clenching her jaws together to keep from screaming, maybe. Both hands close; one into a fist, fingernails digging into the palm, the other around the neck of the waterskin that she is still holding.

 

 

"Ack...she will make a pitiful sacrifice, though," Khaan says, scowling. "Weak and white-faced, just like the rest of the Stonelanders. Just look at her now, even--she hears us talking and she cowers on her bed. The Great One deserves a great sacrifice, not some pitiful wimpering fool of a woman like this. Better to sell her off to a fat merchant. She's pretty enough to be worth a few coins as a harem girl. If she can be trained up. These Stonelanders...so weak willed."

 

 

         Nodding his head Hayya looks to the woman and barks an order of "Drink!" then looking back to the Soldier he says "Only time will tell what my mistress has planned for her, be it sacrifice or to be sold off for a few coins." Bowing his head he moves off towards his cot, picking up a wetstone he unsheathes the longsword on his bed and takes a seat, running the stone over the blade from hilt to the very tip.

 

Farielle is shivering. Weak-willed, perhaps. But she has enough strength, or pride, or determination not to weep in front of these men. And enough strength or pride to glare at Hayya and not follow his orders immediately. When she does, again, she takes only a small sip; as slowly as she can, trying not to let it shake too obviously. Khaan, she tries to avoid looking at entirely.

 

 

"And skinny, too. Ugly we cannot fix, but she is far too skinny to fetch a good price for a merchant's harem. You should see to it that she is fattened up, fed right. And look--" Khaan points toward the girl, "see how she dawdles in dribbling drops of water down her throat. She will need to be broken, as well, like a good horse, though--she has spirit, clearly, to resist so. But needs to be tamed. And fattened. Pitiful things, these Stonelander women."

 

"Your lady lets you carry a sword?" Khaan now asks in surprise, watching Hayya with the whetsone.

 

 

         Nodding his head Hayya says "She needs to remain looking like a stonelander, for that is her appeal when she is to be sold, why pay more for a stonelander that looks exactly like the rest of your harem?" pausing for a moment "I am allowed to carry a blade so as to kill my Mistress' enemies and protect her if need be."

 

They are still talking about her. Farielle can't stop shivering; if they think she is skinny and ugly, she doesn't care; but even in her fright, a spark of indignation wavers a moment before it is extinguished again. A sword.  She glances towards Hayya, briefly.  If he left it ever...


	9. Chapter 9

The flap to the tent opens, and two women suddenly appear... Umbareans by their appearance, tan of skin though fairer than desert-hailing Haradrim, and clad in the relatively well-to-do attire of city dwellers. One is a venerable woman of at least five or six decades, while her companion is a young girl, and in her arms she carries several thick bundles of cloth. They do not bear the sigil of Seaward, however, nor that of Farside, or any other Tower.

 

The two women glance from the tall Gondorian, to Khaan, then to the other northerner: Farielle. The elderly woman clears her throat and speaks, seemingly to Khaan or Hayya: "This is her, eh?"

 

 

Khaan turns and stares at the two women. "And who might you be?"

 

 

"The High Priestess of Mordor," the old woman says, and then lets out a harsh bark of a laugh. Her younger, perhaps more pious, companion blanches. When the woman is done with her laughing she says. "Or His Majesty's tailor. Take your pick!"

 

Taking one of the bundles of cloth from her assistant -- white silk -- the old seamstress gestures to Khaan, and then to Farielle. "Help me with her, will you? I need some measurements."

 

 

"His Majesty is it now?" Khaan says, not hiding the sneer curling his lips. "And who exactly might that be? A price has already been paid for this Stonelander?" At which, turns to the girl and barks sharply: "UP! And make no fuss!"

 

Farielle jerks at Khaan's unexpected shout. Slowly, she sits up, then stands, swaying as if her balance is uncertain. Two days of not drinking can do that to a person. "Tailor?" she asks, hesitantly.

 

 

"Yes, whiteskin. Tai-lor," the old woman repeats slowly, as if talking to an imbecile. As Farielle stands uncertainly, the younger woman withdraws a long thin strip of leather and then moves to stand behind the Gondorian, measuring her waist, height, and so forth.

 

The old seamstress looks back to Khaan as she holds up a few different kinds of silk, comparing them to the Gondorian prisoner's complexion and hair. "The King of Gondor, you drunken wastrel," she corrects him in a tone that is gravelly yet also friendly, or even flirty. "The Lady of Seaward has offered her to him as a potential bride."

 

The silk is beautiful. Despite herself, Farielle's eyes linger on it; staying longest on shades of blue and green. She is trying not to listen to or care what they say, but still she stiffens again at the mention of 'bride'.

 

 

"The King of Gondor...." Khaan laughs a little, then says, "right, right," giving the older woman a wink--and speculatively eyeing the younger one, before giving up on that prospect, seemingly. "SO...this runt of the litter of Gondor's women is to be bride to the King?" He shakes his head, snapping at Farielle. "Do you hear that? Stand up straight and drink more of that water before you ruin yourself for him. Or we will make you drink after these lovely seamstresses leave."

 

 

The young assistant holds up some particularly dazzling gold-lined azure silk, but the old seamstress frowns and then snaps: "No! Get rid of the colours. I swear these damned Stonelanders cannot pull off anything except black or white," she mutters angrily, in spite of any disagreements Farielle might have as to the colour choices. "Stick to... that--" she points at some particular cloth. "Umbarean eggshell. No... Cadaver cream. Hm. Maybe that ivory white from Far Harad."

 

As the assistant goes about sampling some new colours, the old woman turns back to Khaan. "She might be," she shrugs, as if her employer's eccentricities and obsessions are nothing more than peculiarities that happen to pay well. "If her lineage is confirmed by the Royal genealogists. And the suitability of her stock for producing worthwhile heirs is recommended by the Royal midwives. And her profile is deemed aesthetically pleasing by the Royal sculptors." The old seamstress holds a ream of bright pink silk to Khaan's front and waggles her brows. "Now -you- can pull off this colour!"

 

 

The blue, in the brief moment it is held up against Farielle, turns her blue-grey eyes an amazing shade; perhaps the old woman wasn't looking. Or perhaps she just doesn't care. Farielle herself watches it almost longingly as the younger woman folds it away. Colors are safe. Silk can't hurt you. She stares at the different swathes intently. But in spite of her attempts, her attention is jerked back by the old woman's rambling speech. Her profile? For a moment, in sheer astonishment, it seems Farielle might have laughed. If she were in a different place. With different people.

 

 

"Pink! I'm no fat merchant's slave boy! Get that away from me," Khaan says in disgust, swatting at the material. "If you ask me, the pink would look good on the Stonelander. Better than cadaver white--she's half dead looking already, what with that skin of hers. But why your Master wishes to see her in any clothes at all is beyond me."

 

 

The old seamstress snatches away the pink silk with a scowl, her flirtations rebuffed. "I suggest you keep your fashion advice to yourself! As that is why you are a corsair, not the most sought-after tailor in the land!" Turning around, she ambles over to Farielle and, in a fit of pique, holds up a different silk... this one resembling more of a vomit-green. "Hmmm," she purrs thoughtfully. "Now this is nice."

 

 

Nice... is a matter of interpretation. Suddenly, Farielle looks ill. Seasick, perhaps. Staring at it, appalled, the girl blurts out, "That?!" Then she stops herself, and lowers her eyes. Meekly, "It is very nice."

 

 

"Are you blind, woman?" Khaan snorts. "The girl is right. That color is completely wrong for her." He reaches over, trying to grab the blue silk from the pile that the assistant seamstress carries. "Try this one--here." He holds it up to his own face. "Now..one would assume your King will want to be able to see the shape of her body as well, correct? What kind of dress do you plan?" he asks, suddenly taking charge.

 

 

The old seamstress turns to Khaan in a fury, tilting her head up as a haughty coldness comes over her. Then, as Khaan suddenly takes charge... she suddenly grows flirty again. "Oh, I -enjoy- the presence of a man who has a mind for clothing," she answers surreptitiously holding the pink to his back while he's focused on Farielle.

 

Then she glances at the blue the Corsair now proffers, and shrugs. "Sure, you can put that on her... If you want her to look like a whale going for a stroll. His Majesty wishes a formal engagement gown of a Numenorean cut. His Majesty is less interested in seeing her hips and more in her pedigree," she recites.

 

 

 

"Well, this is an...unexpected scene," comes the voice of Yildirim who's head has popped through the flaps of the tent. "It's oddly reminiscent of a dream I had."  Deadpan at first, his efforts break as he smirks, snorting with amusement.  "More the nightmare actually. Is that for you...?" he asks Khaan of the silk.  "Quite fetching."

 

Something has restored a little of Farielle's equilibrium. Enough that she says, casting Khaan's words back - not at him, but at the old woman, "I am too skinny to look like a whale in anything." Her voice is still hoarse, as if the words hurt to say, and she doesn't speak very loudly.

 

"Her pedigree?!" Khaan chokes back a laugh, then turns and swats at the pink silk again. "The fabrics are for this woman of noble birth that my Lady SEaward found. Soon she will be your Queen, Yildirim. You should tend to her, therefore."

 

 

"Is that so?" Yildirim responds, brows raised, interest piqued. He steps fully into the tent, eyeing the girl and the escape being performed for her.  "You climb the ladders of Umbar society quickly, Farielle."

 

 

"Or would you rather look like a walking candelabra," the old seamstress growls at Farielle, holding up folds of a brilliant gold cloth that many women would die for, but the old Umbarean obviously thinks is of poor quality. "Or an oliphaunt?" she gestures at equally fine silver. "I think this is much nicer--" she indicates a mucus-coloured sample, ere she notes Yildirim's entrance.

 

"Ahhh, Captain," the old seamstress frowns at him. "She is not the Queen of Gondor, yet," she corrects Khaan. "The Royal genealogoists must find her worthy. The Royal midwives must find her healthy. The Royal sculptors must find her pleasing. The Royal linguists must find her laughter to be of a perfectly modulated frequency..." the old woman's words trail off; she is obviously tired of repeating. "I do, however, have something for you," she adds to Yildirim.

 

"I tried to jump off it," Farielle says quietly to Yildirim. She looks away from him, and says, managing it lightly, "And if my profile is acceptable." The bruises on her face are turning darker; and she swallows with difficulty, and sways again, as if she is suddenly dizzy, putting out a hand to keep her balance.

 

"I want the blue," Farielle adds, after a minute trying to catch her breath and not fall over. "I look terrible in yellow."

 

 

"Oh no, dear lady, I am well," Yildirim says, hands up to defend again what she would put upon him, be it physical or not.  "Though it is pleasing to know my Lord has such royal people to attend him."  He takes note of the Gondorian's condition, a light frown taking place of his merriment, but saying nothing of it.

 

 

"I will fetch a healer for the girl," Khaan says, scowling as Farielle sways. "And Yildirim, see to it that she drinks more water meantime. She is ill used to this heat. And..." Another scowl for the color prefernces of the healer, "I will ask Lady Eruphel to come choose suitable colors for her gown." Without waiting to hear the opinions or reactions of those he is ordering around, Khaan leaves.

 

 

The young woman assisting the old seamstress appears to have finished with her measurements, and the old seamstress nods approvingly. A bunch of colours -- mostly shades of white, as well as the mucus and even the blue Farielle expresses a preference for -- are bundled away into one. Once Khaan is gone, however, the seamstress also adds the pink... for her own uses. "We shall be back with your dress," she announces to Farielle.

 

Then the old woman turns to Yildirim. "You may relax, Captain. It's not a dress. In fact, His Majesty commanded that I give it to you." A black tabard is offered, of very fine make and bearing the King's White Tree, but no longer the Raven of Farside upon its boughs... instead, a Heron. "I must go now, to finish the whiteskin's dress... and maybe a little something else." With a nod to her assistant, the old seamstress departs.

 

It must be noted at this time that in two days, Khaan shall receive by anonymous courier a sash of pink silk -- made in the manner of those commonly worn by Umbar's warriors -- with a small love heart embroidered on the inside.

 

Surprise at the tabard, Yildirim calls after the seamstress, "But... what is this... who..." but she is gone already, and he can but shout, "Where are the pants to match?!"  Then a sigh, "How I long for war again with such madness as this."

 

Then they are alone, Farielle and he.

 

Suddenly, nearly everyone is gone. Farielle sits back down on the cot behind her; abruptly and hard, as if her legs have just given way, and buries her face in her hands.

 

 

There is silence while the lady hides sight from herself. And then, nearly upon her, more words, "Would you like one?"

 

Farielle is trembling again, but when she looks up, her eyes are dry. So are her lips, cracked and parched. "What?"

 

A trio of odd flora. Three bulbs, prickly and red, sit in his hand, each but an inch or so across. With them he bears a smile, bright and friendly.

 

She stares at them for a long moment, reaching out at last to touch one with a finger. The rush of pride that held her up during the last long hour is gone, and the blue-grey eyes that lift to Yildirim's are desolate. "What are they?"

And quieter, ruefully, "I would rather have a knife."

 

"Fruit. Just peel off the ugly part. It comes off easily enough."

 

In his other hand he holds up another fruit, green and red. "And odd that you should mention a knife, for this one requires such. Though, sadly, the last time I gave a man a knife, he plunged it into my chest." He shrugs, as if there is no more explanation needed.

 

"Thank you." She reaches to take the offered fruit, looking up at him for a moment and then away. "You need not worry. I couldn't stab you if I wanted to." There is no point in refusing to eat the fruit, not with soldiers about ordered to make her drink something every hour; she peels it carefully and takes a bite.

 

 

He takes a seat before her, and plucks the dagger from his belt. He cuts a side off the melon-sized fruit, revealing a yellow flesh inside, handing it to her as well.

 

"So, I fear I could not leave, but I paid a man to send your note to Gondor. Assuming he is not killed, it should arrive soon enough."

 

"You have met Eron, have you met his sister? Lady Nisrin?"

 

Farielle eats slowly. A little nausea shows on her face, but she manages the first fruit without any incidents. Her eyes lift to his as he speaks of the note, and she nods, though the news doesn't seem to bring her any pleasure. "Thank you," she says, dutifully polite. 

 

"Yes. She - she played her lute for me." Something in that memory fills her face with misery.

 

Her woe seems unnoticed as he bites from the yellow fruit flesh, juice trickling down his fingers. "I did not know she played the lute. Did she play well?"

 

"I think so," Farielle replies. She begins to eat the other piece of fruit he gave her, glancing once at his dagger. And then her gaze goes to the far side of the tent, where Hayya's cot is, and reluctantly, she lifts the waterskin he had given her and takes a small swallow from it. With a flicker of a smile, "Please do not tell her I wasn't listening very closely. But I did enjoy her music."

 

 

Yildirim considers some more, chewing on the fruit. "You are a noblewoman, no? What sorts of gifts did you receive in Gondor? Did you have suitors?"  He pauses then adds, "What sorts of gifts would you want?"

 

Farielle pauses, mid-bite, having laid the waterskin back down again. She tips her head to one side, considering him. "I - yes. I am not old enough to wed, but there were men who - who expressed an interest. In the future." She blushes, her pale skin turning rose, and maybe to turn the subject, asks, "Is there someone you wish to give gifts to?"

 

Now it is Yildirim's turn to redden but his words do not seem to show any embarrassment, "I have thought on it. Perhaps."

 

"I do not know if it would be appropriate or even appreciated."  He grins, "I have little experience myself."

 

"The gifts I liked best were when I could tell someone really cared about what I liked and wanted," Farielle offers. She sets the fruit down also, half-eaten. "Instead of jewelry just because all women are supposed to like it." Something makes her smile, softening her face for a brief moment.

 

 

"Well, that is good advice I think, though makes the task more difficult, since I know little of her likes."  Yildirim sighs, "If I even should."

 

"Then just give her something simple, so that she knows you are thinking of her." Farielle looks down at the bitten-into yellow slice of fruit and something twists her mouth. "A piece of fruit." Then she glances up again, curiously. Thinking of Yildirim's dilemma instead of her own has smoothed away the rawest edges of her distress. Or at least submerged them for a time. "Why shouldn't you?" she asks.

 

 

"Umbar politics are, I would guess, as difficult as Gondorian. Family ties, Tower ties, religious ties, and all with their obligations," Yildirim says, offering the woman another slice of the sweet fruit.

 

"Is it not like jumping from the edge of a great waterfall? The thrill of the fall, the refreshing coolness of the water... only to be dashed on the rocks below. Is it not better to focus on the goals of one's life? Fickle are not the hearts of great men."

 

 

Abruptly subdued, Farielle says, "I don't know." She shakes her head at the second piece of fruit, and a little wistfully says, "But perhaps you would fall into the pool at the bottom, not upon the rocks? My ... parents did that, I think." She swallows. It still hurts, but not so much, and she only winces a little. "Father always said that he was stronger be-because of her." And suddenly, she is weeping, silent tears that slide down her cheeks, while she turns her head, putting up a hand to try and hide her face.

 

 

Again the young Corsair says nothing as she cries for a time.  Then, "I made a salve for your wrists. You said you worked with the healers so I assume you can wrap your bandages."

 

"Would you like me to see if I can find something for the bruises?"

 

 

"I miss my family," Farielle says with a sort of forlorn dignity, wiping her cheeks dry. "I am sorry. I did not mean to cry." 

 

"Yes. Thank you."

 

"It is well. You are a prisoner and a Gondorian. Lady or squire, it is the expected outcome," he jokes, bringing a smile at least to his own lips.  "On that topics, do you know a Menelglir Telpekhor? Or perhaps a Bor Bragollach?"

 

Farielle tries to smile, unsuccessfully, at his 'joke'. "I am not very acquainted with the Telpekhori," she says, her voice cooling automatically. "Lord Bragollach, I know a little. Not well. How do you know them?"

 

 

"Menelglir and I spent a great deal of time together when I was in Gondor. He is," Yildirim's features lighten, genuinely pleased, "By far, my favorite northerner. Though I know he despises me so. Ah, perhaps one day, when we are old men, we can talk and remember days long gone as fast friends."  He chuckles fondly at the thought.

 

"As for the Bragollach, more of a less pleasant interest. He was my captor for a time. It is my aim to repay," his mood darkens, "The kindness he showed me.  I saw him on the field. He remembered me not and struck me down.  A disappointing outcome for me."

 

"He is a madman," Farielle mutters. "I do not like him. I wish..." She stops without saying anything more. "We have not had good relations with Telphekhor, so I do not know Menelglir at all. I think he is younger than I am though." She frowns, her eyes unfocusing. "He was the son of Nalstrarim Telpekhor..." Then shakes her head. "I am sure I have not met him."

 

"You have poor relations with the Telpekhor? That is fascinating."  Yildirim leans forward, unconsciously, "Would you tell me more of that? What do the..." he thinks, "Gilrithin, was it? Your family have against the Telpekhor?"

 

But Farielle suddenly remembers who she is talking to, and a slight chagrin comes into her expression. She glances away and shrugs, trying to make it look casual, and says, "It is unimportant. Why do you wish to know?"

 

 

Yildirim laughs at this answer, "Have we not been speaking only of unimportant things?"

 

"There are things I seek in life that cannot be gotten by blade alone. So I study people and their ways, seeking what truths can be found there. Your nobility is unlike our own and so I find it a curiosity. Or maybe it is not different at all and I am ignorant. That is why I wish to know."

 

"Oh." Farielle looks at him cautiously. "You yourself said not to trust you," she tells him. "And - I do not wish for a careless word of mine to be used against my people. But it is only a little matter. They think that their lineage is superior to ours, and it makes them ill-tempered to be wrong. In important things, we are united." 

 

"I see. A simple feud of families then," Yildirim concludes, content with her answer.

 

"And allow me to augment my statement on trust. Clearly I am Corsair and Farside, not Telpekhor or Girithlin, so it was my meaning to not see my acts for more than what they are. I will not set you free, unless ordered by my Lord or Lady. If I learn of some information that can aid myself or them, I shall use it to my advantage. But, I am not one to speak untruths. There are many in Umbar whose bond of words is unyielding as dipping your hand into the sea, that is to say not at all. I am not one such as they."

 

"I will not lie to you. And you can believe that because I have no reason to. And I have read tales that if your lineage is true enough, you can look into my eyes and see the truth in my words, even now," and so he does look into her eyes.

 

Farielle listens, her eyebrows drawing together a little in an unconscious frown. But she does meet his gaze, looking steadily into his eyes, and whether or not the tales are true, and whether or not she was born with that gift, after a moment, she nods. "I do not think you are lying to me," she says. She sighs a little. "I do not lie. Perhaps I shall have to learn."

 

 

"Be wary... such gifts are not only to be found in the lands of Gondor."  He stands now stretching his arms over his head, "Sadly, my day is filled with tasks less pleasant than fruit cutting. May I ask that you be discreet with what we talked about this day? I have been freer with my own wounds then perhaps prudent."

 

The girl nods. "I will remember." And she smiles, almost shyly. "Thank you for talking to me. And for the fruit. I will safeguard your words, as much as I am able."

 

Yildrim nods, smiling at her thanks. He turns and pushes open the flap to the tent, then stops and looks back, "Would you hear but a few words of advice, Lady Farielle, before I go?"

 

She has looked down as he left, picking up the fruit that is left and nibbling at it, and now she glances back up. "Yes?"

 

"You are proud, and if the bruises on your face did not paint that picture clearly enough, then it could be easily told by the slant of your nose. There is a time for pride, of defiance and willful determination."

 

He saddens some, "It is not that time for you.  Do you understand my meaning?"

 

Made unwary by surprise, Farielle doesn't hide the swirl of emotions that cross her face swiftly enough, and for a moment, the torment of the trap she is caught in shows plainly. Then she drops her eyes. "I understand," she says quietly.

 

"Then be well, Lady Farielle."

 

"Until next time," a quick nod and Yildirim disappears into the bright afternoon sun.

 


	10. Chapter 10

_Another day has gone, another day come much the same.  Sudden waves of terror, rebellion, homesickness, wash across Farielle, making her almost frantic and unable to sit still.  Then she paces - if no one is there - or bites down on the heel of her hand until the pain without eases the pain within.  In between, she sits numbly on her cot and waits, she knows not for what._

 

It is late afternoon, nearing dusk, and the breeze is coming in nicely, if a little damp. The camp outside, if one should see it, has tidied up nicely: the blood is washed away, the rubble nudged, moved, and swept. The Haradrim are preparing to depart.

 

From within a closed-off portion of Lady Eruphel's tent, there is the angry sound of raised voices, uttered in Haradaic. And then Nisrin storms out into the main area of the tent, looking very much ruffled.

 

Farielle has no idea what the camp looks like; she is inside. All the time. It's getting boring, sitting, waiting. She looks much better than the day before, her lips are still a little chapped, but her face isn't so hollow and she has more energy. She listens to the arguing with idle interest - having no idea what is being said - but then, there's not much else to listen to either.

 

Nisrin stops short. Taking a deep breath, the girl runs a hand through her dishevelled hair and smiles towards Farielle. "You look better today. They didn't let me in, but I heard Lord Khaan was not happy."

 

Farielle gives Nisrin a half-twist of her mouth that might be a smile. "I suppose it was foolish of me to hope," she says quietly. "I should have known someone would see." She shrugs, nodding towards a cup and pitcher that are both full. "But as you see, I am drinking." She sounds resigned; and just as she says this, a guard pokes his head around some curtain or other, and Farielle looks up, then sighs and does actually take several swallows. The guard nods and vanishes.

 

The Haradrim girl settles herself comfortably on the floor, startling once when a guard pops his head out of nowhere. "What were you trying to do?" Nisrin asks. "Lord Alphros doesn't like desiccated ladies."

 

The older girl looks at Nisrin levelly for several minutes. "What do you think? If they hadn't noticed a little longer, Lord Alphros could have found himself another lady, as fat as he liked."

 

Nisrin holds Farielle's stare, then looks away. "Oh," she says shortly, biting her lip. "There are more honorable ways to ... do that." The girl hugs her knees, then says, her voice flat, "I thought you were different. Stronger than what I was told of your women."

 

"I have no other ways," Farielle says quietly. She gestures around. "What would you suggest? That I steal Hayya's sword, while he is sleeping with it?" She looks away at the girl's condemning words, then back, her head held high. "You could not understand."

 

"I could not," agrees Nisrin levelly. Her eyes flash, proud, as she looks at the other woman, "My people are not brought up to die quietly. If I were to be shipped off to be wed to one of your men -- not that any would want me, really -- I would have taken as many as I could down with me in the camp. I was surprised you would not try to throttle me while we were alone."

 

"All the same," the girl says softly, tilting her head, "I wish you would not try it again."

 

"You are taught to fight," Farielle says uncaringly. "We are taught nobility. Why should I kill you? You have done nothing to me. And if I did as you suggested, and somehow got a weapon, it would be worse than useless, for I do not know how to use it, and could kill no one, even if I wished to try, and then I would be in much worse case than I am now with nothing to show for it." 

 

But the other girl's sudden - sympathy? - makes her falter, where contempt has not. She looks down at the floor. Very quietly, "I betray my family's honor by living." Tears sparkle in her eyes, but do not fall.

 

"I am not a boor, nor a monster," replies Nisrin with frank displeasure. "I might help you run," she adds quietly, "if I thought it would do any good. You are my age, and I have had no one else to talk to. But your ships sailed days ago."

 

"You dishonor House Girithlin by starving like a dog. There are better ways to die, but surely better ways to live."

 

Farielle nods, her face both sad and resigned. "They are gone, and I cannot hide among you," she says, looking at the extreme difference between her skin and Nisrin's. She sighs, shaking her head at the other girl's last comment, and seems unsure what exactly to say. But she tries, moved by some impulse - another girl, near her age, and she has no one else to talk to either, save Yildirim. 

 

"It is my heritage," she tries to explain. "We are descended through age after age from the first fathers of men in Middle Earth, who were allies of the Eldar. And my many-times great grandmother was one." Her voice is quiet, still awed by the thought no matter how long she has known it. "It is our honor to keep our name and our line pure. I .. no matter what happens to me, if I live, here, I cannot keep to that."

 

"A close-knit family?" says Nisrin, and her sneer is defensive, envious. "That is a nice story, to be sure, but the pale Faeries are a thing of the past. Your lineage may be pure, but here you are alone. What will -you- do now?"

 

But Farielle isn't hurt by the sneer. She looks at the girl, meeting her eyes, and it seems she understands Nisrin's envy. She nods once, in acknowledgement or acceptance, and then bows her head, looking unseeingly down at her hands. "I do not know," she whispers. "I do not know what to do."

 

"Stay?" Nisrin suggests mildly, raising her eyebrows. She shuffles closer, leaning back against the posts of the cot. "Stay and live for a while. It cannot grow worse, I am sure. Lord Alphros is noble and not cruel; he has been long misunderstood by the Northerners."

 

Farielle wavers. She is young, and doesn't really /want/ to die. "But if I have a child," she says uncertainly, and blushes faintly.

 

"Your son," answers the Haradrim girl matter-of-factly. "And Alphros's heir."

 

The Gondorian girl shivers all over, looking suddenly ill. "I - I /cannot/!" she says, desperately, and lifts her head, looking around the tent as if she might miraculously see a knife that had somehow been overlooked.

 

"He will not force you," says Nisrin with a raised brow. "Surely he has learned from Lord Pharazon's faults."

 

"You are envied!" the girl adds with jesting jealousy. "Lord Alphros is well-liked by many women, surely. How we sighed when we learned he wished for a Gondorian Queen!"

 

Farielle shivers again at that name, the worst of all the Kings of Numenor, though for a time, the brightest and best. But what she says, almost to herself, is, "He speaks as though I have choices, when there are none." Then she lifts her gaze again and tries to match the joking tone. "I will trade with you... though we will have to bleach your skin somehow. Or paint it white."

 

"You are too tall," points out Nisrin in an effort to make light of things, sighing. "And I haven't your eyes, nor your figure. And you do not know how to sail."

 

"I can sail," Farielle protests. "A little, anyways. I've been, and I watched how they did it, and even steered some. We live along the coast, after all." 

 

"Perhaps we could stretch you out? You would have to go around with your eyes shut..." As humor goes, it is fairly feeble, but she is trying.

 

"My brother would notice straightaway," Nisrin grimaces, glancing angrily toward that section of the tent. "I am sorry. Could I bring you anything?"

 

"I would like something to do," Farielle says wistfully.

 

"What do your nobles learn? Besides how not to fight?" asks Nisrin pointedly. "Although I do not think there is a harp in the camp."

 

"I can play things other than a harp," Farielle replies. "But... I would rather not, here. I do not know what you can bring - paper and ink? I can draw and paint and sing and embroider and ride and sail - a little - and hunt with a bow, and supervise the stillroom women, and tell if my steward is cheating me." A half-smile hovers on her mouth for a second. "But paper. If that is not too difficult."

 

"Pen and paper," echoes Nisrin, then smiles. "As long as you are not drafting up your will!" She ducks out of the tent-flap into the bright hazy afternoon.


	11. Chapter 11

_It was so good to be home. That was Lominzil's first thought as he disembarked from the ship and stood, balancing against a swell that no longer was, on the stone harbor steps of Dol Amroth. For the first time in what felt like years, a smile stretched over his face. He took a deep breath of the cool, salt air, and turned with sudden determination towards the Healing Houses. Farielle. Seeing her would wash all the confusion and blood and hatred out of his mind, and he would be himself again._

_"WHAT?"_

_The young healer quailed. "I'm - I'm sorry, sir," she stammered. "I thought - everyone knew - we searched for her for hours, and all the next day as well. Squire Menelglir fought like a man possessed to try and save her, but - but he was out-numbered and alone. I'm sorry. But she is alive. I - I told you the message just as we received it. Have hope; she is alive, and surely you will be able to ransom her home."_

_The young man stared at her, then turned on his heels and plunged out, heedless of who might be in his way._

Sea and sky meet: waves lap restlessly against the worn white stone of the harbor, morning rain falls wind-tossed and bleak on the slick flagstones. Ships of myriad sizes lie in various states of readiness. Some, new-returned from Caldur, are exposed to the bones, battered by long misuse and rotting in the lukewarm southern bays; others stand alert, patrolling Belfalas restlessly.

Between the fishermen and their catch, shipwright and floating patient, there is little of a path to be found. But the lean, blue-clad form of the young man, Lominzil, traverses easily among the regular commotion of the docks. He forces his way through, never minding the drizzling rain, his odd blue-grey eyes hunting among the faces.

There is a lady on the docks; for who knows what reason. Maybe just to watch the ships, for she is standing in a quiet spot, out of the way, and doing nothing. The determined figure of the lad in blue catches her eyes and she watches him.

Thick cloak, hood worn up, protects Menelglir against wind and rain and chill as he moves about here, his deliberate footsteps seeming to suggest that he has duties he is attending to--whatever they may be. He hops onto the docks from the railing of one of the ships here, starting to make his way also, toward the town.

"Lady Tathar," Menelglir says, managing to spot the woman despite her out-of-the-way spot. He heads toward her, swan-crested cloak and blue tunic getting wet.

Lominzil's gaze flickers like a fell wave to the cloaked Blue Squire, and he begins to step in that direction, an urgency lent to the roughness of his push and shove.

Tathar looks away from Lominzil when she hears her name. "Menelglir," she says, smiling a little. "Good day. What have you been doing?"

"Delivered a message to one of the Swan Fleet ships from Sir Gwendion," Menelglir answers, completely oblivious that Lominzil is on a path toward him. "You heard that he is Knight-Captain now? Or Acting Knight-Captain at the very least?"

"No, I hadn't heard." Tathar's smile grows. "I am glad to hear that. He is a good man, and wise." She looks back at Lominzil, and finally recognizes him - her smile slips, and the sadness that has been in her eyes since they returned from Caldur grows.

Silently, Lominzil -- he was a White Squire last they sailed, he would not have dared do such then -- lunges for Menelglir's sleeve, seeking to twine cold fingers into the thick fabric of the other's cloak and then pull him back, close. He says nothing. One might observe that this new Blue Squire's eyes are red-rimmed with grief.

"Yes, it certainly is a good thing, though the task that lies ahead of him is.....aaaack!!" Menelglir yelps as he is dragged back by Lominzil. He twists about to see who is doing such, but that only wraps the cloak tight around his neck, so he grabs a hand to try to release Lominzil's hold.

"Lomin!" Tathar exclaims. "Let go, you're choking him!"

"Hello, Menelglir," comes the Girithlin man's cool voice, deathly calm. "Do you know a Farielle Girithlin?" Menelglir's hand strikes his arm and he loosens, but keeps his hold. Lominzil glances to Tathar, makes to say something, and looks back to Menelglir.

"Of course I know Farielle Girithlin," Menelglir answers, starting to sound angry. "What is the meaning of this? Let go of me."

Tathar looks from one to the other, starting to frown. "Lomin," she says, stepping forward, but then has nothing else to say.

"Know, yes," smiles Lominzil mirthlessly. "She was the girl who was kidnapped, and who you could not save. I was told you were the last of the Gondorians to see her. Would you like to know that my sister is still -alive- in those Southrons' hands?" He lets go grudgingly, though his hand is shaking visibly.

"Your -sister-??!!" Menelglir's mouth drops open. "And you blame me for not saving her when she had wandered so far alone from the camp that it is a wonder that anyone at all saw her taken?!" he answers, anger growing. But then Menelglir swallows hard, forcing his anger down. "I am sorry Lominzil. I tried. I had to kill a man, and then another came at me equally as ferocious. I could not get to her. But...if she is alive...seek to ransom her. We ransomed our 4 year old cousin recently."

"She is not a fool, but she is not a soldier," Lominzil snaps, his eyes and voice rasping dry. "But you were there, and now she is gone. And now you speak of trading girls like bales of cloth. It is not so with Fari ... her words were like that of one about to die. I am going back there to retrieve her before the Haradrim handle her like..." he says blindly, stepping back from the Blue Squire where a moment ago he was about to throttle him.

Tathar darts a glance at Menelglir, still not saying what she is thinking - that the girl might be better off dead. But then... "Her words? Lomin, what do you mean? What words?"

"A messenger sailed from the South. They bring word that she is alive -- that 'she made her own choices, that you should not seek vengeance,'" Lominzil clenches his hand into a fist, "how could I not, 'that she loved you.'" He looks to Tathar, his gaze eerily blue and mad-lit. "She knows that a fate lies there for her, and tells me to stay."

Wordless with shock and grief - and compassion - Tathar reaches out to touch the young man's arm. She would hug him, if they were not standing in the middle of the docks. "Lomin," she repeats, helplessly.

"Going back? What do you mean? Going to Harad? You cannot. Well, your family can try to send an envoy....it has been done before, Lominzil. There -is- hope," Menelglir says, frowning deeply. "Find the messenger. Offer a price. Do it now."

Lominzil flinches. "To offer money is my father's decision," he states quietly. "Mine is to seek her. I will find her. Do you imagine," the squire begins, a wolfish smile on his lips, "that I would be lent a boat..."

"Lominzil, you can't!" Tathar looks at Menelglir, "Menelglir..." then back to the older squire. "You don't speak the language, you don't know the land, you don't even look like them! How could you ever find her?"

"Lend you a ship?" Menelglir asks, incredulous. "No...Lady, calm yourself. Lominizil--you are not thinking clearly. Lady Tathar has it right. You will just be captured and enslaved--and do your sister no good at all."

Lominzil looks flatly to one, then the other. Finally he says, smiling, "I imagine she would like some company, all alone in the South."

Tathar doesn't know what to say, and she looks back and forth between the two young men. "But..." she says at last. "You might not be near her. And I think... that the thought of you, also enslaved, would break her heart." These last words are spoken very quietly.

"Lominzil..." Menelglir reaches a hand out to the other's arm. "Please...you cannot do this. There is still hope. Please...at least talk to Sir Gwendion? There is hope and if you throw your life away there will not be. Not for her."

"Surely the illustrious Knight's concerns do not include the well-being of a young Girithlin maiden," Lominzil replies, his smile meant to mock. "I fear it was for my sake, Menelglir, that she decided to sail to Caldur. It is therefore my responsibility. I will find her."

"Do you know Sir Gwendion? Have you even spoken to him for more than a few minutes? I have. I am his Squire and I have talked to him and extensively so. And I say give him a chance. Talk to him about this before you throw your life away," Menelglir says.

"Please, Lominzil," Tathar pleads. "At least speak with him. If - you can always look for a boat after."

Lominzil bites his lip, dark hair slipping to hide his face. "I will speak with him," he says softly, as if to assure them of good intentions, and backs away, blindly sorting his way through the crowd.

"Lominzil!" Menelglir shouts as the young man slips into the crowd. He takes a step to follow, but hesitates and looks to Tathar. "I do not believe him for a moment. I should go after him, no?"

"Yes, please," Tathar says, looking after the squire anxiously. "I am afraid he will do something foolish."

But the Girithlin squire is faster than his dumbfounded state appears -- he is gone. Amidst the rain, a shred of blue turns out to be only the sun-faded uniform of a sailor, the bewildered face of another squire. But none of Farielle's brother.


	12. Chapter 12

_Farielle had hardly noticed the ship, nor the journey.  Despite knowing that her people were gone, still some tiny, unacknowledged hope had lingered - as long as she was there still, where she had been taken, they would find her.  Somehow._

_She stared at the wall of the cabin she'd been taken to, and felt the heave of the floor beneath her as the ship met a wave.  Gone.  She was gone, and now they would never be able to find her.  A single tear slid down her cheek._

_She had been too dazed to pay much attention to the journey from the dock to this place.  This Tower.  She had vague, confused memories of heat and shouting and an all-pervading stench.  The tramp of boots.  People stopping and staring and pointing.  And now she was here.  Where-ever 'here' was.  Presumably Seaward Tower, for Yildirim had said she was held by Seaward, and this was most certainly a tower.  At least she still had the paper Nisrin had brought her._

 

Her room is small and not at all fancy, but much larger than a cot in the corner of a tent shared with numerous other people. And it has furniture. Farielle has pulled the low table over near the wall, so that she sits on a cushion, but can lean up against the wall. A shaft of sunlight coming through the small window catches the side of her head and shoulders as she bends over the table writing something on a piece of paper. 

 

The bandages are gone from wrists and ankles, leaving healing red stripes in their place; but she is still barefoot. It must be by choice however, as there are a pair of soft indoor shoes near the door.

 

Hardly a knock precedes the entrance of the guard Khaan, perhaps a familiar face to the northern woman. Another guard remains at the door outside. "Thirsty?" Khaan asks as he enters, carrying a pitcher of water. His tone fairly drips with sarcasm as he sets the pitcher down, then next to it a clay mug that he has also been carrying. "I wanted to make sure that the future Queen of Gondor is well tended. Ma'am."

 

Another knock sounds at the door then, and from without comes a low chuckle. "Really, Corsair," says a deep, rich voice, accented unlike that of the Seaward folk Farielle has yet met. "You need not stand on ceremony. Let the paleskin woman eat while we speak, and not keep a cousin of your Lord waiting..."

 

Farielle looks up, and turns the paper over so that the writing is hidden. She looks resigned as she takes the mug, pouring it half full and drinking a little. She is opening her mouth to reply when someone else comes in, and the girl seems to brace herself against this newcomer - though it seems he only wants to speak to the guard.

 

"And who are you?" Khaan turns to ask Lojrul as the man appears at the door. "Cousin of who?"

 

He glances to Farielle. "I have heard," he says, still sarcastically, "that you said that you were so thirsty you would drink this entire pitcher and then another. All today. Fancy that."

 

"Cousin to your Lord," returns the other fellow with the hint of a scowl upon his features, though as his hands slip to his waist his eyes swivel to Farielle. "Ahhhh," says he, smiling widely and stepping into the room fully. "You must be the mighty prize, snatched from the bosom of the milkskin warriors, brought to Umbar in glory."

 

Looking her up and down with no apparent hint of shame, Lojrul's eyes narrow slightly. "A strange choice, to be sure..."

 

The footfalls of a light tread can be heard ascending the stairs, the echoey voice of a woman giving music to the pedestrian tempo as she talks while she walks, only slightly winded. "Yes, a surprise. I am surprised you have not already heard, actually. And I meant for you to see it first, before your brother, but such is not the case. Follow me...its just a few doors down..." It is the voice of the Tower Lady, Eruphel, and her ethereal voice at the beginning seems to find body the closer she gets to the teak door, until at last she steps into view, glimpsing the visitors. And this seems a bit of a surprise for the woman, if the look on her face is any way to judge.

 

"With each word my curiosity is piqued," replies another voice, also feminine. Its owner enters the room upon the heels of Eruphel. Tall and light of skin, she is not entirely different from the seated Lady of Gondor. Azradi too pauses at the entrance, sweeping her gray-eyed gaze from one person to the next - perhaps wondering which is the surprise or if it is the collection. Finally her gaze comes to rest upon Farielle. "I believe I understand now..." she observes, glancing to Lady Seaward.

 

"Did I?" Farielle asks Khaan innocently. She stiffens though, at the other man's stare, lifting her chin a little, proudly. Then her eyes go to the door again as Eruphel and another woman appear there. A hint of wariness enters her expression, and she darts a look at Khaan.

 

"Ah, I see," Khaan frowns to Lojrul, eyes weighing the man. He shrugs and turns attention to Farielle. "Mighty indeed, if she proves worthy," he says, then reaches into his tunic to pull out a sash of pink, which he throws toward Farielle. "Here. I seem to recall you liked this color." 

 

Khaan is already turning toward the door at the sound of Eruphel's voice--he salutes as she enters. "I brought the woman water, Lady. She does not yet know how much she needs to drink in our clime."

 

As Eruphel and Azradi enter, Lojrul stiffens, turning his gaze to the noblewomen, and he bows lightly. "Cousin," says he to the Lord of Seaward, spreading his arms wide in greeting. "My congratulations and welcome upon your return to Umbar. I trust that matters have been concluded to your satisfaction in Caldur?" he asks then, glancing towards Azradi.

 

Eruphel nods sagely and silently to the Lady of Farside, before stepping into the room, leaving room for Azradi to follow behind her. First, she speaks to her own guardsman, whose name she cannot remember, though she has a feeling she should. "Water?" She looks briefly at the Gondorian woman, a little amused. "I see, Soldier. I take it you are the guardsman on watch for this hour?" Her dark gaze now sweeps toward Lojrul, in askance. This one, she remembers. "And hello, dear cousin." Her voice isn't exactly warm. "I am surprised to see you, and thank you. Barazon remains ours, and Farside has Caldur back, though I believe it may be some time before the vestiges of the Gondorian visit can be erased." Now she looks at Farielle almost accusingly, as if she may be the true reason for Lojrul's visit. 

 

"But I am being rude. Azradi anAzulada, Lady of Farside, meet Farielle Girithlin, my guest." Eruphel says, stepping aside to let Azradi past.

 

Glancing once more to Eruphel's cousin, Azradi's brow wrinkles as she tries to recall the man. Whether or not she does remains unknown, however, as her answer gives no indication of recognition. "Indeed, Caldur is ours once more but has suffered greatly."

 

Her gaze shifts back to the Gondorian Lady immediately and she walks a few steps closer, studying the woman intently. "And you say my brother has met her, already?"

 

The pink sash falls across the table, and Farielle picks it up, saying sweetly, "No, I preferred the blue. This surely is yours." She stands up, giving it back to the guard. Then she looks back at Azradi, saying nothing. This woman looks differently, and a slight frown draws the girl's eyebrows together.

 

The pink sash falls to the floor, for Khaan does not take it. "Yes, Lady. It is my shift at the door," he says, bowing. He moves that way now, though with so many people it's a tight squeeze.

 

And Lojrul, for one, does not make his efforts easy, for he stands yet with his arms outstretched. "A gift, is this, to the mighty Farside?" he asks plainly, his smile fixed upon his lips. "Do you bring any such bounty for my own folk, who shed blood to secure your holdings?"

 

Eruphel takes a deep breath, and exhales. "Yes. I sent word that I wished him to come as quickly as he may, expecting the usual months-long wait. But instead, he came almost immediately, and I was ill-prepared." She crosses her arms, watching the two women. "He was reserved, I felt."

 

As Khaan moves toward the door, Eruphel holds out a hand before him to make him stay. "Wait. I would like a report of her conduct, and of what visitors she entertains. There are to be no visitations without the guard witnessing...for now." Lojrul gets an unamused look, but for now she does not answer, while talking to her man.

 

A grin curls Azradi's lips when the pale woman offers the pink sash to her corsair guard. "She has wit, at least."

 

Lady Farside glances to Lorjul but first listens to Eruphel as she speaks. It is to the towerlord she addresses her first words, an observation. "My brother reserved? Truly, I would not have guessed." The words are offered drily, but her eyes glitter with amusement.

 

It is then that she turns back to the one identified as Eruphel's cousin. She looks him over a moment, then says, "I am not entirely sure of who you speak when you say 'my folk' but this Lady belongs to Seaward and is not intended for Farside. She is not my bounty to share whether I would or nay."

 

As Eruphel asks after her conduct and visitors, Farielle darts another glance at the guardsman. And the tension in her body grows, though the only visible evidence might be that her breath comes light and fast. Still, not far beyond ordinary, and she is surrounded by people of whose motives and goals she knows nearly nothing. It would be strange if she weren't tense.

 

"Yes, lady, of course," Khaan says with a slight bow to Eruphel. "Here in the Tower, these are her first visitors. Otherwise, I was not assigned to guard her regularly before this, and do not know who else has seen her. As for other matters..." he studies Farielle, considering. "As I said, there was a problem with our hot weather at first, but as long as she drinks enough water, I believe that problem is solved. Of course, you could always send a healer to make sure she is adjusting well. Oh..." he frowns at the dropped pink sash. "A tailor to the King of Gondor stopped by when she was in your tent--took measurements for a gown."

 

Lojrul replies to Azradi: "My folk, Lady, are those of the Sand who were called forth by your brother to aid your efforts. My right-hand, Saldin, gave his life for such, and his worth cannot be matched by the Corsairs that decorate your ramparts. I have come to see with my own eyes the tribute to be levied to mighty Alphros, and to assume that there is similar in store for both Desert Tower and the children of Lajrul."

 

His eyes dart then to Eruphel. "Is this so, cousin? Is there an ornament to match this bedwarmer in store for my own uses?"

 

"Oh? Funny I had not heard." Eruphel's brow is perplexed. "Tailor? Trust Lord Alphros to take a tailor with him to battle." she mutters under her breath. "In any case, inform your relief of these orders as well." Then she turns her eye toward Lojrul, lifting a hand and crooking a finger. "Care to speak with me outside?" she asks, and steps out the doorway.

 

Lojrul narrows his eyes gently, but ever does his smile remain fixed upon his lips. With nary another word, he follows Eruphel outside.

 

Farielle relaxes minutely when Khaan is done, then stiffens again at Lojrul's description of her. She can't stop the slight tremor that runs through her body, but lowers her gaze to the table, hiding her expression.

 

Azradi's eyes glitter upon hearing the Desert Man's demands. Tilting her head arrogantly, she seems on the verge of answering when he leaves with Eruphel abruptly. If anything, the hard glint of anger shines brighter in her eyes. She turns her back to the door and levels her gaze on the Gondorian lady. That anger has not faded, though it does not appear directed at the young lady. "I do not know what my brother said to you, but I feel confident in offering you at least this assurance: Should he choose you as his bride, you will be his honored wife and my sister - not a slave and not a 'bedwarmer' as that man so crudely put it."

 

"Strange that your brother would seek to wed a woman of Gondor," Khaan says, looking to Azradi. "Though I know little of politics and such matters."

 

Farielle does not look up as Lojrul and Eruphel leave, staring almost blindly down at the blank side of the paper on the low table. She shivers again, and crosses her arms, then looks up as Azradi speaks. "And if he does not?" she asks quietly. Then she shakes her head as if to rid herself of that question, and says, still in a low voice, "Thank you."

 

"And yet you have the right of it," replies Azradi, glancing to the corsair and answering him first. "It is a political match - a sacrifice for his ambitions. If he intends to be King of Gondor, he must have a Gondorian wife."

 

When she returns her regard to the young woman, a touch of compassion can be glimpsed in her hard features. "Do not avoid such thoughts, but do not dwell on them either, Lady. I am afraid I have no power in your fate save what influence I can achieve through my brother."

 

"Everything comes with a price in Umbar; love, loyalty and alliance as well as the material. If my brother does not wish to marry you, it is possible Seaward will assert its claim over you. It is also possible Alphros will wish to, and be able to be the master of your fate."

 

"You would be well served if you curried his favor."

 

She glances back to the guard. "What is your name, Corsair?"

 

"A political match--then it is true that your brother is the true king of Gondor? Has Gondor accepted this news?" the guard answers, then shakes his head, with a grin. "Me, lady? I am but Khaan, son of Haldin."

 

Something comes into Farielle's face as the other two speak, a sadness, perhaps. She looks down again, and thus the flash of revulsion - not surely for the man, but him as king of Gondor - in her eyes cannot be seen. When she looks up again at Khaan, it is gone; her face is impassive and there is no expression in her eyes other than a faint interest in his name.

 

Smiling wryly, Azradi answers the corsair. "His claim is true. We are the descendants of King Tarannon and his Southron Queen Beruthiel. Some Gondorians have accepted this, some have not."

 

Lady Farside glances to Farielle's wrists and nods her head to indicate them. "The chafing is from being bound in camp, I assume? Has a healer tended to her?"

 

"Of that I am not certain," Khaan answers, staring for a moment at Farielle's wrists. "I was not assigned this post until very recently. But I will have one sent here right away. For such a purpose, the lady must be kept in good health, after all." Without further formaliites, then, the guardsman steps out of the room.

 

Farielle's gaze moves to Azradi as she speaks of her lineage - and she manages to keep hold of 'no expression at all'. But she can't keep a little surprise from creeping in at her other words. Some have accepted this claim? Khaan turns to leave and her eyes follow him, then return to the Haradrim lady, slightly wary now and uncertain.

 

In a drift of silk and sandalwood, Azradi moves closer and looks down at the blank parchment upon the table. She does not reach for it however. "Were you betrothed or leave a lover behind in Gondor?"

 

The girl shakes her head. Then, in a voice from which also all expression has been expunged, she says, "I am - was - not of an age to wed. There - " She falters slightly and a faint blush stains her pale cheeks. "My father had not accepted any offers on my behalf, yet."

 

"How many years do you have?" queries the Southron lady. "Does your House wait until the 25th year to marry?"

 

She glances once more to the blank paper and moves away to sit on the edge of the bed.

 

This brings Farielle's gaze around in open astonishment. "Yes," she says, "But how did you know?"

 

"I am but nineteen." The faint color in her cheeks deepens a little. "There were some men who spoke of the future, but Father did not press me to choose among them." She sounds more indifferent to the thought of any of these men than not.

 

"It is the custom of Adunaim," replies Azradi, looking pleased with her answer. "What you would call Dunedain in your elvish language."

 

"My family follows this custom as well. I have only recently come of age for such things so I certainly understand your sentiments toward these potential suitors."

 

The Corsair lady crosses her leg over the other beneath her skirts and absently adjusts them. "It is good to know that there are some in Gondor who still follow the old ways. And it is good to know your heart doesn't belong to another. It will be easier for you to accept your new life without such a complication."

 

"Do you speak Adunaic?"

 

Farielle is still standing, but now she sinks slowly back down onto the pillow, leaning slightly against the wall, as she had been before everyone started barging into her room. "So," she says slowly, "Even if - if your brother does - does want me..." She trails off, blushing even more, and grasps at Azradi's question with relief. "A little."

 

Tilting her head, Azradi studies the blushing woman - perhaps trying to read the thoughts behind such an expression. But, she merely says, "Good. My family speaks Adunaic in private." She smiles, a true smile, and adds. "Women see to the traditions of a family. I cannot entirely predict what Alphros may do or not do, but on this I insist as his sister: You must learn Adunaic and your children must speak it also. I will not see this custom fail."

 

That smile fades in time, and still she studies the younger woman. "Do not think your age will save you from marriage if that is what my brother desires and do not expect love to blossom."

 

"Then you do not follow that custom," Farielle says. "Or - only as you wish to." She doesn't say this in any tone of contempt, merely as an observation. The color has faded from her face, and she looks both weary and unhappy. Surely, she has dreamed of a marriage where she might love her husband, and he her, not this bleak future Azradi is painting for her. 

 

She says after a moment, "It can be no harder than Sindarin."

 

"These are extraordinary times," explains Azradi, simply. "Among the nobles of the South love-matches are more common than marriages of alliance. And yet my brother will forgo that custom as well. You will not be the only one making a sacrifice."

 

"And yet there are different aspects of marriage. There is the contract of husband and wife; Lord and Lady - and there is the union of a man and woman. You should expect the former should he desire it, but perhaps the latter..." The Adunie lady shakes her head. "I should say no more. These are matters for Alphros to decide and I should not give you false hope."

 

She allows a silence to fall for several moments, ere she too comments on the more benign part of their conversation. "I learned both very young. I may have learned Adunaic first, though, I am not sure. Alphros might know."

 

"Sacrifice," Farielle repeats, bitterly. Then she is silent, her eyes downcast, listening to Azradi's words but with no more comments. What is there to say, after all? 

 

And she finds she cannot say anything at all when the lady speaks of learning languages with her brother, but shuts her eyes to hold back the tears she will not shed. The moment of treacherous weakness passes though, and she says, her voice dull, "I have always known Sindarin. I do not remember learning it. We.. I must have learned it when I learned to speak."

 

"As did I," replies Azradi, her expression not without compassion but certainly not overflowing with it. "I know that many of the High Houses of Gondor still speak Sindarin as their daily language. I imagine it was much for your family as Adunaic was for mine."

 

"Farielle," she begins, using the woman's name for the first time. "I know a Lady who found herself in a situation very similar to yours. She too was treated with honor and in time resigned herself to her situation. She found contentment, even happiness, in her family. And though perhaps she never found that love we hope for, eventually affection and respect grew between her and her husband."

 

"You future does not have be as terrible as you fear."

 

"But I will never see my family again," Farielle says, desolately. "Nor my home. I can live without love in a marriage, if - if your brother is an honorable man, but ... " She looks up at last, "Why have you done this? If - if he is ... wishes to be king in Gondor, must - must he steal a wife? Why does he not speak with a Family. There are girls, surely, among those you say have accepted his claim, who would desire such a union." Perhaps she is trying to sound strong, or reasonable, but all that is in her voice is anguish. For the moment, under the press of grief, perhaps she has forgotten that Alphros is all that stands between her and an even more terrible future.

 

"He did not steal you," points out Azradi. She rises from the bed, standing tall - tall even as a man of Gondor. "You were captured by Seaward when your forces invaded my land. That you rest in such a chamber as this and have the potential to marry a great Lord of the South is a stroke of good fortune that you do not yet fully realize. If my brother did not desire a high-born lady of Gondor, you would, at best be kept elsewhere and held for ransom. Most likely you would be a marked slave and toil at the worst tasks Seaward requires - such is the way of this Tower and its Lady."

 

"I will leave you with these thoughts to ponder, Lady Farielle. And I remind you that your future rests in Alphros' hands - whether he marries you or not. Do not forget that."

 

Farielle is silent a moment, staring down at her hands, struggling perhaps to curb her emotions. Then she looks up. "You are right. I apologize for seeming to accuse him of deeds that were not his." She stands also, in the unconscious manner of a lady bidding farewell to her guests.

 

A ghost of a smile haunts Lady Farside's lips and she does something unusual, she inclines her brow to the Gondorian lady - albeit only slightly. Then saying nothing more, she turns and departs from the chamber - leaving the sweet woody scent of sandalwood in her wake.

 

The woman is gone. The door is shut, the guard is without. Farielle sits back down and takes up her pen; turning the paper over. But she doesn't continue writing, only stares at it blankly.


	13. Chapter 13

_Farielle signed her name in tiny cramped letters.  There were two letters on this paper now, to her brother, closest in age, closest in heart.  Although she adored her older brothers, Lominzil was her friend, her playmate, her confidante.  She glanced cautiously at the door, and re-read what she had written._

Dear Lomin.

A girl has brought me some paper and a pen.  I do not expect you will ever read these, but I am writing them anyways.  In some way, it makes me feel you are near, even though you are not, and never will be again.  

I am in a tent here in Caldur - I think it is Caldur anyways - and all of your ships are gone.  Even if I could get past the guards, and somehow manage not to be seen, there is no longer anywhere to run to.  Everyone here has brown skin, and they all stare at mine.  It makes my skin crawl, but I try to pretend I don't notice.  

I am sorry - I tried to kill myself, but I failed.  I do not know if I will get another chance, but I will try to do everything I am told and pretend that I am too frightened, and maybe they will stop watching.  

I hoped no one would notice, so I lay on the cot all the time to make people think it was the same when I was there because I couldn't stand any longer.  And no one did notice at first.  But then a different guard came in.   I think he thought I was someone else, for he came right up to where I was, and I couldn't hide it, though I tried.  They forced me to drink, and now I am watched.  

I am so weak, Lomin.  I was almost glad he saw me - I have heard of men dying of sun-sickness, and it sounded such a painful way.  I was terribly afraid.  I didn't know it would be so hard either; I was so hot and thirsty, I wanted nothing more than to drink until I died of it, or drown myself in a pond like the one out behind our house.  Do you remember?  With the swans that nested in the reeds every year?  Sometimes I imagine I am sitting there again, with you, crouched in the mud trying to count the eggs.  It was so quiet.  Everything here is noisy.  I think my head will explode.  

But I must try again.  A knife would be easier, if I can get one.

I am to be taken to Umbar.  I tried to convince them that Father would pay any ransom they asked, but no one listened.  A man came to look at me, and he told them to take the chains off.  The woman said that she hadn't planned to until Umbar, which is how I know that is where I will be going.  I didn't know that any Haradrim could be kind, though I don't know if he said it to be kind.  He also told them not to rape me, for which I am more thankful than I can say, though the reason... but I will tell you that later.  

But a young man here has been kind to me.  He said that he understood what it was like, that he had been a prisoner of Gondor, and he brought me some fruit and did not mock me when I wept.  I was determined not to, but I thought of Mother and Father and you, of Eruiglas and Gwaithmir, and that I would never see you again, and I couldn't stop myself.  He says that the man I told you of will be fair to me, if I am to him.  And that there are other men much more to be feared.  He is right.  I have heard it myself.  This place is terrible, Lomin.  I don't think all of the people are.  But they truly do worship our long Enemy.  A man who I think is the husband of the woman who appears to be in charge here is worst of all.  His sister is the girl I told you of.  She is afraid of him, and I think that I am too.  He says that if the negotiations for me fall through, he will have me given to him, to give to the Eye.  And several other men have spoken of the same thing.  

There is a man here who was of Gondor once, but through some dark powers, was given life when he was almost dead, and now he is turned to them.  He is a slave here, and seems to want nothing more.  I can't understand how this can be.  What if it happens to me?  

Lomin, I don't know what to do.  The man I told you of, the one who said I shouldn't be chained, they call him the King.  But the line of Kings is broken.  They want me because I am a Girithlin, and he wants a Queen who is of Gondor.  I think of it, and of our heritage, and I know I cannot marry him.  I cannot.  Everything rebels against the thought, not least the knowledge that I would betray the honor of my house, and lose your love, if I did.  But he is the only one who can keep me safe.  Even the young man who has been kind to me, his name is Yildirim, won't help me.  He told me so.  And if this 'king' doesn't want to marry me, I don't know what will happen to me.  I don't want to be a sacrifice, either, to add strength to the Enemy.  But how can I marry him, and let my children grow up in this dreadful place?

Love, Farielle

 

My dear brother,

He wears a veil all the time so that all you can see is his mouth and chin.  I wish I could see his eyes, to see if there is any kindness there, or any honor.  Yildirim says that Seaward Tower, who I am kept by, is different from Farside Tower, which is who he owes loyalty to.  So perhaps all Haradrim are not alike.  If I must marry him, I hope he is kind, but even if he is not, he must be an honorable man or I shall not.  Can one find honor in a place like this?  Perhaps I am a fool even for looking for it.  

But I think he is a bit of a fool, in a way.  Or perhaps 'fool' isn't the right word.  I don't know what is, though. When they took off my chains (I was so glad!  They were hooked to a stone so heavy that I could hardly shift it, and trying to walk made the shackle-part cut into the rope burns on my ankles.  So I moved as little as possible, but there are things you just have to get up and walk to.  I still spend most of my time sitting, but at least it doesn't hurt to move any more.), the woman - her name is Erufel, I hate hearing it, a woman like that with the name of the One! I will just call her Fel, here and you will know who I mean - told me that if I tried to run away, she would hunt me down and I would regret it; and also, the camp is filled with soldiers, all of whom have dark skin.  And he is sitting there, this man whom they call king, and he said afterwards, 'If you choose to stay, Lady Farielle, I can promise you the food will be good.'  

I am not sure what to think of that.  Does he really think I have any choice at all?  And to be talking of food at such a time!  Good food is the least of my concerns!  But he called me Lady, just as if he really thought I was.  I mean, I am, of course, but no one else here seems to care.  Though since they took me solely in the hope that I would be of noble blood, they must care somewhat.  But either they ignore me, or stare at me as if I am a slab of meat at the market, and talk about me as if I cannot hear.  

I think of what my fate might be if I were not of Girithlin, and shudder for that poor, imaginary girl.  I, at least, am afforded a small measure of protection by my blood.  If Mina had gone to wash the bandages instead of I... I don't even want to think about what might have become of her.  Somehow, I don't think they would simply have brought her back when they found out their mistake.  And then I shudder for myself.  I am very selfish, Lomin, for I wish that you were here at the same time I am glad that you are not.  I hope you are alive.

Your sister,

Farielle

 

_She folded up the paper, very small and looked around for somewhere to hide it.  Under the mattress maybe._

_The door swung open and she started, hiding her hand in her skirts, but it was only a maid bringing a tray of food._

_"Thank you," Farielle said.  The woman gave her a strange look, but bobbed her head in a sort of courtesy, and said something back in the harsh-sounding syllables of what must be Haradaic.  When she was gone, Farielle tucked the letters between the mattress and the floor, and looked at the food.  It was early evening, but she was hungry, and even though what was on the plate looked strange, it smelled enticingly.  Her stomach grumbled.  She ate._


	14. Chapter 14

It's evening, but early. Farielle hasn't left her room, so she doesn't know when the other inhabitants of this place might eat, but there are the remains of a small meal on the low table, and a hairbrush lies near them. The girl is standing with her hair unbound and loose about her; she has clearly been brushing it, and now is trying to braid the silky black strands. But it is fine stuff and floats about her, clinging to fingers and arms and clothes; and besides that, is longer than her arms. She's not having much luck. 

 

Outside, a floorboard creaks and quiet words are exchanged: one gruff, the other female. Then there is a polite rap on the door.

 

Farielle starts a little and stares at the door. Then she pushes her hair back, holding it off her face with one hand, and says, tentatively, "Yes?" Someone is actually waiting for her to respond before coming in? How novel.

 

Nisrin enters lightly, glancing about the room. She is followed by a guard, who shuts the door and leans against it, idly observing the ceiling.

 

"Good evening," says the Haradrim girl with a small smile, her eyes flicking over the meal. "I see you supped."

 

"Yes," Farielle answers. She smiles too - though no expression reaches her eyes, it is friendly enough; and returns to dealing with her hair. Giving up on braiding it for the time being, she gathers it back off her forehead and twists it into a loose knot at the base of her neck, pushing a wooden pin through to hold this in place. The edges fall softly to curve along her cheeks. She glances at the guard, then looks back to Nisrin, waiting.

 

Outside the door there is the sound of a quick and perhaps annoyed conversation before, with a shove at the door, Khaan enters. He glances from the guard to the girl to Nisrin. And then grimaces and stands there, arms crossed over his chest, silent.

 

"You have such nice hair," sighs Nisrin enviously, dropping unceremoniously onto the other thick cushion that functions as a seat. She nearly jumps as the door bursts open again, and regards the newcomer with a ruffled look. "Lord Khaan," she says, then, continuing unhurriedly, "I brought you some fruit."

 

She brings forth a small open basket, laden with various citrus, and pushes it across the table.

 

Only visible by Farielle -- it is difficult to see under all the brightly-colored orange and yellow rinds -- a ragged scrap of paper is slipped into the woven ridges of the basket. Nisrin raises an eyebrow briefly, then resumes her friendly, reserved look.

 

"Oh," is Farielle's response, as if that was the last thing she was thinking of. "It is hard to take care of myself," she admits. "I can't braid it." She is moving towards the table herself, when Khaan comes in and she turns to look at him with a slight puzzled frown. "Did you need something?" she asks him.

 

"Lady Eruphel will want to know the purpose of your visit," Khaan says, directing this only toward Nisrin. Farielle gets the barest of nods--grudgingly so, even. "The guards must report all comings and goings with the..." he glances to Farielle, "visitor."

 

"Bringing her fruit," Nisrin replies shortly, the cant of her head regal and decidedly annoyed. "And for the braiding of hair," she decides mischievously. "It is what women do to look more presentable. You are not going to help me, are you, Lord Khaan? I could use one of the pins from my chambers, this is such an ugly one..."

 

The guard is gruff, almost to the point of rudeness, but Farielle doesn't seem to care. She nods back, then seats herself gracefully on another cushion - placed so the wall can be used as a chair back. Reaching for one of the oranges, she starts to peel it.

 

"I am not your errand boy," Khaan snorts back to Nisrin. "If she is to be the Queen of Gondor, then why doesn't she have maids to braid her hair?"

 

"Fine," sniffs the Haradrim girl, "you can sit there and watch if it so interests you." 

 

Farielle is looking quite intently at her orange - tricky, peeling those things after all - and if any expression slides across her face at her possible future title, it may easily go unseen. Especially since no one seems to be looking at her. The last of the rind is pulled away and set neatly on one of the dirty plates, and the girl starts to eat, one segment at a time. Her gaze lingers idly on the fruit basket, as if she isn't really thinking about what she is looking at, but after a moment, she takes another orange out and turns to look at Khaan, then beyond him to the other guard. "Would you like one?" she asks them both.

 

"Why, yes in fact," Khaan says politely, taking the offered orange. "Thank you, miss." He looks to Nisrin, "and where do you stand on this matter--is she the queen of the Stonelanders?"

 

"Not yet," answers Nisrin, regarding the knot of Farielle's hair critically. "And with her hair all over the place, no. Have you a brush?" she asks the lady, rising from her own seat.

 

Turning sideways, Farielle leans forward across the fruit basket, to pick up the brush that is on the far side of the table from her. She has to stretch to reach it. Handing it up to Nisrin, she settles back onto the cushion, tucking her dress under her legs carefully. "Thank you," she says, gratefully, and ignores the discussion about queens entirely.

 

When she sits back, the bit of paper is gone from the basket's weave.

 

"What say you, miss," Khaan asks of Farielle. "You have been quiet on this subject. But then I suppose you have not much to offer?"

 

"And you," he nods to Nisrin, "what would make it so?"

 

'Her marriage to a King, presumably, would give her that title,' says Nisrin, methodically loosening the straight, raven-dark hair of the other lady. With a practiced hand, she runs the brush through it a few times. 'I have not seen Lord Alphros much, though.'

 

The Haradrim girl leans in conspiratorially towards Farielle's head, with the semblance of a girlish giggle, whispering swiftly, "A correspondence in the elvish script that I found in the ruins. Will you read it and tell me of it later?"

 

"Yes, of course - I want it braided," Farielle replies, smiling. "And you are not to ask him to help you, he will get juice all over. Besides, men cannot braid."

 

She doesn't turn her head while Nisrin works on her hair, but says to Khaan, smile gone, "When my words might have the smallest effect, I will speak."

 

"Of course I can braid, or at least tie knots," Khaan says, wiping his hands on his trousers as he finishes peeling his orange. He starts eating one slice at a time from the peeled ball of fruit in his hand. "The smallest effect? Dear girl, when you are Queen your words will rule Gondor--this does not appeal to you?"

 

And a flash of suspicion then colors the man's glance. "Later what?" he demands of Nisrin.

 

"Exactly," sniffs Nisrin, deftly separating the other woman's dark locks into sections. "You will tie knots in it, and it shall have to be cut off." She looks playfully affronted at the sudden drop in Khaan's trust. " _Later_ I will bring her some of my ornaments. I have a few whose jewels would match her eyes well," the girl says mildly, her lips curving in a catlike smile.

 

Farielle is silent, for long enough that Khaan might think she isn't going to answer. But then she says, quietly, "I am not yet of an age to wed, yet if this man wishes it, I must. I cannot speak to even a family member of the lady of this tower alone. If Alphros doesn't find me pleasing, I will be sold as a slave or given as a sacrifice to my people's greatest enemy." She doesn't speak of the third alternative - suicide. 

 

"I will never see my family, or my home again. And no words or desires of mine will be listened to by anyone, or make the smallest change in what will happen. Where in this is there any appeal, Queen in name, or not?"

 

"Ah, well, none of us can control our fate, can we now?" Khaan says with a grim smile to this litany from the Stonelander. "And yet, fate it would seem to me, that brought you to us. And what good is it to struggle against it?" he shrugs. 

 

A stern look is given to Nisrin, and he slips into the local language.  "That is not what you said. You mentioned the word 'ruins,' and if you persist in lying to me, then this will of course be reported to the Lady Eruphel."

 

Nisrin gives a frustrated hiss and tugs sharply on a knot. "Why would I lie to you, Khaan?" she mutters angrily in the same tongue. "It is her hair that is in ruins, as you can clearly see. I dislike that you do not trust me so."

 

Nothing she says has the smallest effect. There is no point in speaking. Farielle sits quietly, holding her head still as Nisrin works at a snarl.

 

"Do not whisper in front of me and I will have no reason to mistrust you," Khaan smiles dryly using Westron again. "There should be no reason to keep a secret, after all, no? And it is my duty to ensure that I, as one of her guards, know everything that goes on here."

 

"Very well," says Nisrin icily, turning her attention to the thin braids she is working into Farielle's hair. "I shall announce all our girlish gossip henceforth."

 

"Have you any that are blue?" Farielle asks, as if Khaan and Nisrin have said nothing at all. "I like blue. Or green." She lifts a hand to feel experimentally at her hair.

 

"Fine," Khaan huffs in return, adding, "Women!" 

 

"Farside's tailors will dress in you green, likely. Yellow-green, if that woman has her way of it. Horrible."

 

"I have plenty of blue ones," answers Nisrin, flashing Khaan a winning smile. "But yellow-green ... merciful Zimraphel, you will look sallow in such a color. Can the Tailor's heart not be changed?"

 

"I will look ill," Farielle says. "I cannot wear yellow at all. Clear green, or blue-green. But blue is better." She speaks as if automatically, a girl talking clothes with another girl - and incidentally a guardsman - but also as if it doesn't matter. What she wants, what she says - no one listens, and she will have a dress of puke-green, and look like a week-old corpse.

 

"Ask for pink," Khaan says, yawning and looking both bored and horrified at this topic. He makes a face. "Is this truly what women talk and care about?"

 

"Pink like one of Abernaci's elephants all dressed up," Nisrin scowls. "It is what -noble- women talk about, Lord Khaan, so that they appear tasteful and refined. Did you not know? And seeing that you have stayed so long, I would offer to braid your hair, too."

 

Farielle makes a face. "I hate pink." She looks at the guard out of the sides of her eyes, still carefully not moving her head. "Sometimes, we talk about embroidering," she offers, a mischievous glint in her eyes, though her face is still impassive - the first of anything like humor she has shown.

 

"And shopping in the bazaar," shoots in Nisrin quickly, intent on boring the guardsmen to tears. "Knitting. Raising kittens. Discussing love poetry and writing it, too."

 

"I could tell you one, if you liked," Farielle puts in. "I have several that I've written memorized."

 

 "All right, all right," Khaan says, looking more and more horrified with each suggestion, until he finally holds up a hand. "You--" he points a large finger to Nisrin--"are responsible if anything untoward happens as a result of your little chat. I will be outside the door, on duty, before this drivel drives me insane." He all but runs out the door.

 

"Do tell," begins Nisrin eagerly, "and I will respond with the song of the turtle and the nightingale ... oh. Goodbye," the girl says, waving crestfallen to Khaan and the other guard (not to waste this opportunity for escape) as they exit.

 

Farielle is silent for a long moment. Then she starts to giggle. It has been so long since she has laughed - or had anything to laugh about - that she almost can't stop. "Knitting," she gasps.

 

"Knitting," replies Nisrin gravely, before bursting into gleeful laughter. "It has been so long since I had someone to talk to about such things! Eron does not like kittens," she points out sadly, before pulling a butterfly-pin from her own hair, its wings darting a jewelled blue, and securing Farielle's braids with it.

 

"Please," Farielle begs when she has finally managed to stop laughing - it has become almost hysterical by this time, but she does regain control of herself. "I like kittens. And poetry. And embroidery and clothes but let us please not talk of knitting."

 

She grows quiet then, glancing at the other girl and then away. And looking at the basket of fruit on the table, she says tentatively, "I am sorry... it seems a terrible thing to me, to be afraid of one's brother."

 

"No knitting," agrees Nisrin, folding gracefully back onto her seat-cushion. "Give me a sail and a fair wind any day."

 

"And let us not talk about him," the Haradrim girl says, hugging her knees as she looks furtively to the door. "I am afraid of him, but he is powerful, and strong, and my only family. And I am sure he cares -- but empathy is not one of his strengths."

 

Farielle nods and says nothing more, though maybe her expression tells that she can't even imagine being afraid of her brother. She is quiet for a few minutes, spending the time trying to see what her hair looks like by feel. "You don't have a mirror, do you?" she asks, and then, in the same tone of voice, "What is that paper?"

 

"Not with me," says Nisrin, slightly surprised. "I had been longing to try that style out for a long time, you see, but my hair is too curly. Someone cut it off when it got wound about a spar."

 

She leans across the table, helping herself to an orange. "It is a letter of sorts that I found in the Keep, after they all left," the girl murmurs so that eavesdroppers outside the teak door cannot hear. "But it is in some elvish script, and I do not want the scholars to pore and hum over it. Will you tell me what it says? I am curious."

 

A letter. In elvish. It must have been written by the Gondorians. Farielle pulls it out from beneath her skirt, and spreads it on her lap, and her hands are trembling slightly. No matter who wrote it or what it is - most likely a list of supplies or something similar - it is from her homeland. 

 

"Do something to my hair," she murmurs. "Pretend you don't like one of the braids or something." She bends her head as if to give the other girl a better look at the bottom of whatever arrangement is there, and starts to read.

 

"Dearest sister, if it is true that word has passed to Gondor through the Haradrim blockade, then perhaps you shall have news of us soon. We ourselves did not know that Sir Brannon and his ships had escaped but for his absence the next morning, and for Sir Imrakhor's announcement, grim but triumphant. I do not know the mind of my Captain now -- not that I claim to have ever known the decision of the Council that sent us here, thinking that Prince Imrahil might be held in this place. It seems almost a lure, knowing our thirst for vengeance, and we being led by a madman."

"I do not begrudge him his Captaincy, for we are inspired to fight by something like fear, but I am afraid for what will happen to us all should his madness be allowed to continue. Yet in times of war it is men like Imrakhor Bragollach that Gondor needs most: men who know to hate and strike out against those who hate us equally. We have come to Caldur so that the Corsairs need not visit Dol Amroth ..."

"I hope you and Mother and Father are doing well. Has Losse had her kittens? You must count them for me, and we will raise them together when the Knights return, for I am certain that we will return, and the Haradrim cannot stop me from even swimming back to Belfalas once this fighting is won..."

 

"What is this tuft sticking out?" cries Nisrin loudly, almost petulantly, and marches over posthaste to fix the offending braid.

 

"It is a letter," Farielle murmurs. "From someone to his sister... he is writing while trapped in the keep, after Sir Brannon escaped. He speaks of feeling that he is led by a madman who thirsts for vengeance. Of being afraid.." Her finger traces the lines of runes as she speaks. "Afraid of what will happen if their captain's madness is allowed to continue; afraid of what will happen if it is not. He..." She stops, her face suddenly dead white.

 

"Bor Bragollach, is that his captain's name?" comments Nisrin, fussing superficially over the braids. "I met him once. He is a fearsome swordsman," the girl says, a note of anger and sadness in her voice.

 

"Imrakhor," Farielle whispers, her eyes running swiftly over the last paragraph to where the words cut off abruptly. There is a catch in her throat, and tears spring to her eyes at the same time as a smile spreads unstoppably across her face. She touches the paper gently, tracing one of the runes with her forefinger... Losse.

 

Nisrin pauses, leaning back from the braids, her head tilted in utter puzzlement. "You know Imrakhor, then?"

 

"Yes, yes, oh, a little," Farielle says, hardly attending to what Nisrin is saying. She is reading the letter again, her eyes devouring each word, picking out little idiosyncrasies so well known - now that she knows to look for them.

 

"Oh," says the Haradrim girl, crossing to her own cushion again. "You have not told me the end," she prompts. But it is so wrinkled and weather-beaten, that the letter itself may have been truncated...

 

"What?" The Gondorian doesn't even look up; hardly seems aware that Nisrin has stopped fiddling with her hair. A teardrop spills down her cheek and she wipes it away automatically.

 

"Is there more?" asks Nisrin patiently. "What is it -- oh, you are crying." She looks embarassed.

 

Farielle looks up, smiling through her tears. "Oh, he asks if Losse has had her kittens and after the welfare of his parents, and ..." She bends her head to read the last phrases. 'You must count them for me, and we will raise them together when the Knights return, for I am certain that we will return, and the Haradrim cannot stop me from even swimming back to Belfalas once this fighting is won..."' Then looks up at Nisrin again, urgent and intent. "Please. May I keep it? Please. It is - my brother wrote this. Lominzil."

 

"Your brother?" Nisrin stares in disbelief for a moment, then smiles sadly. "Yes, I do not think it would do any harm. But you must not let anyone see it. Khaan would be upset."

 

"Yes, I do not know how... he must have... that you should find it..." Farielle is babbling, smoothing the precious bit of paper carefully with her hand. She wipes the tears away then, still smiling. "Don't worry," she says, returning to earth a little at least. "I am not so foolish as that." Tenderly, she folds up the scrap of paper, tucking it into the time-honored storage spot of women throughout all ages and cultures: her bodice. "Thank you," she says. 

 

For a moment, it looks like she will burst into tears in earnest, but she blinks them away, and says, her voice returning to normal. "Losse is our cat. She had 6 kittens just before... Three of them are orange and striped, and one is grey and one is tortoise-shell, and the other is cream-colored all over." If the guards poke an ear in at this point, they will hear nothing but what the girls said they would talk of: kittens. Presumably, they have passed hair ribbons, and will move on to poetry next.

 

"You counted them," points out Nisrin, smiling slightly. "Do you know how to raise them?"

 

"Certainly," Farielle says, lifting her nose and looking haughtily down it. "You feed the mother." A moment and a grin wipes away the fake arrogance.

 

"Do they not get underfoot?" asks Nisrin. "All six of them!" She glances once to the open door and smiles.

 

"Well, that is what kittens do," the Gondorian points out. "Then they grow up and learn to catch mice."

 

_Nisrin laughed.  Then she rose gracefully to her feet and took her leave.  When she was gone, and the door was shut, Farielle took the precious bit of tattered paper out once more.  She glanced worriedly at the door, then sat down with her back to it, and read over the lines again and again.  Lominzil.  That this he had written had ever come to her... she sent a brief heartfelt 'thank you' towards the Valar - nay, to Eru himself, who must surely have had a hand in this impossible thing._


	15. Chapter 15

_In Dol Amroth_

 

It is early morning and the hall is nigh abandoned. Most of the lords and ladies that revelled here the night before are abed, leaving none but servants and guards behind. Two of those guards, wearing the livery of the Prince, pass through here on occassion, or at least stick there heads into the door. But the only real activity is the servants, some cleaning and polishing the floors and walls. The two chandeliers are lowered to the floor, some five or six serving people replacing the melted candles.

 

In one corner the minstrels that played the night previous are milling about, some holding instruments, others just lounging about. Leaning against one of the pillars and conversing with them is a curly-haired young man whose dress and bearing leave no doubt as to his nobility. Their conversation is just wrapping up, the noble flashing a pearly smile at the group, "I look forward to it. Masters..." This last address must be his farewell, for he draws himself up from the pillars, inclines his head politely to them, and turns to leave.

 

It is early morning, but at least one lady is abroad in the halls of the palace. Tathar Draudagnir Nimothan looks into the harpers' hall and glances around at each face there - clearly, she is looking for someone.

 

The Girithlin is on a collision course, but at the last moment he draws himself aside, away from the lady's path. He drops in a courtly bow to the lady, the motion thoughtless, habitual, but graceful nonetheless. Still, he cannot quite help raising his eyes, even in mid-bow, to inspect the fair creature to whom he bows. He arches a brow, straightening rather quickly, "Coz? Valar be praised -- you are alive. I had feared..." he gives a brief shake of his curly head, "No, it matters not. My dear lady, will you oblige me so far as to tell me what you know of my sister? I understand it that you and she where in Caldur when... " A flash of his throat and tightening of his jaw are all that speak to the 'when'.

 

Tathar is turning away - her quarry not here - when Gwaithmir stops her. Her mouth pinches together, pain in her eyes, and she reaches a hand out to him. "I - Gwaithmir, I am more sorry than I can say. I should have guarded her more carefully." She looks around, then draws him towards a small alcove with a bench, sitting down and clasping her hands together, and looking at them fixedly.

 

Gwaithmir does not exactly take her hand, rather offering his arm for her to ignore, take, or lean upon as she chooses. He follows her toward the alcove, also taking a surreptious glance about. Once within the (relative) shelter, Gwaithmir places himself such that he shields Tathar from the view of any entering the hall. The lady's movements, every turn of her countenance, are followed with a keen and intense eye; after a moment of observing her discomfort, Gwaithmir reaches down to secure her anxious hands with one of his own.

 

""Do not apologize, lady! It was no fault of your own, I am sure. Can you tell me of what happened? If it causes you pain we need not speak of it, or not now." His voice is gentle, its tones pure, pronunciation perfect.

 

Tathar clasps his hand with her own; it is warm and comforting. "I did not know she had come with us," she tells him, still looking at her hands and now his. "Perhaps you know that Sir Gwendion requested I go, to aid the quartermaster?" A swift glance upward, and her gaze drops once more. "I discovered her presence only after we had landed and then it seemed safer to keep her with the healers than to send her back to sea on one of the ships." 

 

She stops and swallows hard. "And we needed her, I will not hide it. It was terrible, Gwaithmir." Grey eyes that are swimming with tears that do not fall lift to meet his gaze. "More terrible than any war with - " she nods eastward " - could be. Then... we had been using the river, for water and for washing. I suppose she thought it safe. I - I did not think to warn her not to go alone. I should have! For that is when it happened. She had gone to wash some rags for bandages, and was coming back when the Southrons took her. They found the basket in the path. And Squire Menelglir saw them. I know that he fought valiantly, to try and save her, but there were three and he was alone. As it was, he killed one." Tathar's voice is quivering before she is done, but she doesn't weep.

 

Throughout, Gwaithmir merely clasps Tathar's hand tightly and listens in silence. At the end of he swallows hard, his eerie blue-grey eyes shining with tears unshed; his emotion is enough that his complexion grows somewhat blotchy. He parts his lips to speak but only a pained sigh is released. His spare hand is brought up and pressed against the back of Tathar's head, Gwaithmir leaning over her to lay a light kiss against her brow.

 

Upon rising he seems to have regained his voice. "You are safe now, and need fear nothing. My sister -- may the Valar protect her! -- is in Iluvatar's hands now. Yet, mayhap her captors will prove reasonable. We've gold enough to outweigh my fair lady sister." He reaches now into his bosom to extract a kerchief, blazoned with the arms of Girithlin, which he passes to Tathar. "Come, lady, dry your eyes. It breaks my heart to see you anguished. Break your fast with me, I beg you, and mayhap we can devise some fitting gift for the squire Menelglir. For his valiant efforts in the Lady Farielle's defense he deserves some reward."

 

Tathar closes her eyes as he touches his lips to her forehead, and a single tear slips down her cheek. Silently, she takes the handkerchief, drying eyes and face with it. "I hope it may prove so," she whispers. "Others have been ransomed home again..." She manages a smile, rising to go and eat with him, and her voice is almost conversational as she says, "Lominzil does not think so, I fear. He is half-crazed with grief, and blames Menelglir for not doing more. And himself for being yet trapped in the keep, I think."

 

Gwaithmir hesitates slightly at this mention of his younger brother. "I should speak to him, then. I fear that, in my own grief, I have forgotten his. Between Farielle's capitivity and Eruigil's...I did not think that it were possible to endure such pain and yet live. We are more resilient creatures than I guessed, it seems." His arm is once again offered to Tathar along with a smile, pleasing but rather wan. "Let us go to our meal and be wretched in silence, since the rules of good society dictate that we so do. Yet let me say to you, my lady, before we leave this privacy, that if ever you wish to sorrow in the company of another, I am at your beck and call."

 

"I do understand," Tathar says quietly. "You can endure. Thank you, Cousin." 

 

"And I will say the same to you." A smile is offered him in return before they leave. "Do speak with Lomin. I am afraid he will do something rash, and leave your parents grieving for three of their children."

 

At this Gwaithmir grins, "I will knock him on the head myself, if I must. Now is not the time for rashness, or your fear may well prove a prophecy. Shall we?" He tilts his head toward the door, eyes taking on a glassy sheen, a wall to hide his true emotions from all but his nearest friends and particularly keen observers.

 

"Thank you." Tathar's smile - now public - is gracious; her hand on his arm. She walks with him to the door, and towards breakfast.


End file.
